


One Word Answers

by thelittlestpurplecat



Series: Reluctant Endeavors [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recovery, mention of prostitution, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestpurplecat/pseuds/thelittlestpurplecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(A sequel to ‘Reluctant Endeavors’) </p>
<p>Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have received dishonorable discharges from the navy; Bucky, for being homosexual, and Steve, for failing to turn him in, and instead, falling in love with him. Mistakes were made, and Bucky’s trusting, unguarded heart had take one wound too many. But giving up on Bucky simply isn’t an option. Steve knows that getting him to open up again is going to be nearly impossible, especially since Bucky no longer wants anything to do with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been four months, four months since Steve had been discharged from the navy, four months since he had caused the man he loved to loose everything, four months; and he was just now receiving one word answers. 

He didn’t blame Bucky. How could he? This whole mess was his own fault. Bucky had fallen in love with him hard and fast, and all Steve had wanted to do was love him in return. But he had been scared, he’d been foolish and he’d been selfish, and that had cost Bucky everything; and it had cost Steve Bucky. Frankly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Bucky had never spoken to him again, as of a few days ago, he hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. This past week though, he’d been responding, not much, but it was a hope Steve was willing to cling to.

Steve had taken a job at the docks; a job on Bucky’s crew. He needed to be close to him if he was to have any hope of undoing the damage he’d caused, but Bucky had iced him out, so visiting him really wasn’t an option. That left work.

Work at the docks was tedious, and labor-intensive, with poor pay and bad condition, but it was the best option open to them at the moment. Business owners weren’t overly fond of hiring gay or bisexual men who had been discharged from the service, so finding other work was challenging. At least it wasn’t all bad. He got to see Bucky everyday.  

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sweat glistened on Bucky’s sun-browned skin, the powerful chords of muscled along his arms tightening, and flexing as he hefted a huge crate up from the ground. The splintering wood on the bottom of the box jabbed cruelly into his sore, reddened hands. Callouses had begun to develop on Bucky’s fingers and palms, but they were still too fresh, too soft; they did little to protect him. He grimaced, setting his jaw and hitching the box up a little higher against his chest.

"You okay there?" The sound of Steve’s voice sent a dull ache through Bucky’s chest and he pinched his lips into a tight line. Steve always offered to help when it looked like he had bitten off more that he could chew, which was fairly often. Bucky hated it. He couldn’t bring himself to hate  _Steve,_ not anymore, he had cared about him too much for that. But still…it killed him that Steve still spoke to him with gentleness, and a genuine warmness in his voice that should  _not_  be there; not after he’d iced him out and ignored him for months.

He wanted him to leave. 

"Bucky? Need a hand?" Steve pressed, sounding uncertain as Bucky gave a low grunt. 

"No." He growled softly, the answer short, and clipped. His muscled, hardened from hours of labor on the docks, tightened beneath his dirty, glistening skin. He hauled the crate across the docks, his muscles aching from the strain. Someday, he was going to hurt himself doing this. Finally, he set the rough-hewn crate down with a grunt on the slats.

Bucky straightened. He inhaled deeply, flexing his shoulders with a wince of discomfort. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see Steve standing there yet, a bottle of water extended to him. He paused, his dark hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead. Slowly, Bucky receive the proffered bottle, twisting off the cap and raising it to his parched lips.

Steve stood by, watching as Bucky drank deeply, his Adam’s apple dipping and rising with each swallow. He looked exhausted. Ever since he’d found him again, Bucky had looked tired. The shadows under his eyes had gotten darker, every step seemed to drag at him. His breath always smelled like whisky, although seldom did he let him get close enough to tell. Steve was sick with worry. 

His dropped his gaze reluctantly to the ground, knowing he couldn’t drink in the sight of Bucky forever. As much as he wanted to fix things between them and regain Bucky’s trust, Bucky still had the right to distance himself from him. He had to be careful, but he also couldn’t stop trying. 

Bucky pulled the opening of the bottle away from his wet, pink lips, drawing a deep breath of briny air into his lungs. Despite the refreshing coolness of the water, Bucky found himself missing the harsh, woody taste of whiskey. He needed a drink. Being around Steve was to hard to handle when he was sober. Although by that logic, handling being around Steve was getting easier and easier, as he was sober less and less.  

It was almost time to punch out. His body ached, and his muscles screamed for rest, for sleep, but sleep wouldn't come if he had this much going on in his mind. He needed to be a little numb before he could rest. Bucky turned, walking past Steve, and pressing the half-empty bottle into his hands as he did. Bucky’s finger’s brushed softly against the other man’s skin and he felt a warm crackle, like electricity run up his arm. His heart rate picked up ever so slightly. 

_A hot hand clasped tightly in his own._

_A gentle kiss pressed to his smiling mouth._

Bucky yanked his hand away, his throat going suddenly tight. He hadn't so much as touched Steve since the first day they had reconnected, since he'd sobbed into his chest, begging an explanation for the hurt that had been inflicted on him. He had told Steve he needed space, needed time to think about everything he'd said, and then he;d frozen him out, because it all hurt too much. In four month, that tiny little brush between their finger tips, the touch that sent lightning down his spine, was all that had passed between them.

At Bucky's reaction, Steve blinked, his eyes flicking with concern. His complexion had gone pale. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. "Bucky?" He asked, his voice low, laced with worry. "You okay?" Bucky’s  gaze turned to him, wide, and haunted, before something clicked back into place, like a rubber band snapping a bit too hard against skin. His eyes went flat again, and his lips tightened. Bucky turned away from Steve. He could  _not_ see the thin film of moisture that had formed over his eyes. 

"Fine." He murmured, snatching his bag up off the cracked concrete, and stalking away. 


	2. Chapter 2

Steve was not one for drinking. Not often at least. This mostly stemmed from the fact that his alcohol tolerance was astronomical, and getting drunk was all but completely impossible. But it had been a long day, and this particular evening, it seemed worth a try.

The bar was busy that night. Mostly men, and a select few women, had flocked there after work hours. Some of them, where looking for companionship, some, for fun, and a few, like Steve, had come looking for a distraction. Whatever reasons they had for haunting the establishment made little difference to Steve. He knew getting drunk wasn’t going to be easy, or even possible, but maybe a little alcohol would free his mind to think of other things.

His hand was still tingling as he sunk down onto a bar stood, it had been since Bucky’s hand had brushed his own earlier that day. The contact had sent a wave of warmth though him, the sorely missed touch sending his heart fluttering. Bucky had reacted too; he didn’t know what the other man’s expression had meant, but there had  _definitely_ been a reaction there. But maybe he was just too hopeful. 

"Well, look who decided to show up." came a low, sleepy voice from a few stools down. 

Steve startled, turning sharply to see Bucky sitting a few feet away. He was perched on one of the barstools, legs stretched out, elbows resting on the dark-stained bar. His lips touched the rim of his whiskey glass, eyes glazed, and hooded. There was no trace of the sleepy smirk that had touched his features on the day they met.

And was Steve going insane, or had Bucky just directed  _seven_  consecutive words towards him?

He blinked, gapping slightly before shaking his head. “Bucky,” He started uncertainly, “I…didn’t think I’d see you here.” He admitted, although he should have. He knew the drinking was getting worse, it only made sense that he’d spend his after-work hours here. 

"Yeah, well, get used to it." He said thickly, his glazed eyes raking over Steve for a moment before dropping back to his glass. So that was it. Nothing had changed. The alcohol was just loosening his lips. 

Steve swallowed hard. Bucky may be drunk, but he’d take it, if only it meant that he was willing to talk to him. “You come here often?” He pressed, a note of concern in his voice.

"You tryin’a pick me up?" Bucky accused coldly, swirling the last few ounces on his drink around in the bottom of his glass. He considered the amber liquid for a moment, before downing it and setting it on the bar with a clunk. Bucky turned back to look at him, squinting as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on Steve.  

Steve glanced down at Bucky’s focused stare, his cheeks warming slightly. “I’m just checking on you.” He assured him, the words simple, and honest. The blond haired man steadied his breathing, which had grown slightly irregular, and straightened again.  He met Bucky’s gaze searchingly. “Just here for a drink or two?” He questioned.

A short, harsh laugh tore from Bucky’s lips, momentarily attracting the attention of a few of the other patrons before they turned back to their own drinks. Bucky swallowed back the bitter scoff, gesturing for the bar tender to fill his glass again. “One or two…” He murmured under his breath, his voice catching with a slight chuckle. “That’s a good one Stevie…”

Silence hung momentarily between them, Steve stunned at hearing Bucky speak his name, his  _nickname_  even! True, it was bitter, and satirical, but still…He hadn’t heard Bucky say his name in a long time.

Bucky raised his glass to his lips again, taking a deep swallow and grimacing. “Nope, I don’t stop after  _one or two_.” He said shortly, his hot breath fogging the lip of the glass. The whisky was harsh on his tastebuds, but the bitterness was distracting. “Y’know,” He started suddenly, swinging around to face Steve again, his glass-eyed stare boring into him. “Here’s the funny thing, I drink so that I forget about  _you_ for a bit…and yet, here you are…you  _bastard_ …”

Steve flinched slightly at the words, grimacing. Apparently, Bucky was not only chatty when he was drunk, but he was a little cruel. Steve parted his dry lips, words formulating in his mind, but Bucky wasn’t finished. 

"I still care about you you know."

The words hit Steve like a punch to the gut, and he turned to face him, disbelief written on his features. Bucky was drunk, and he was saying more than he usually did, but did that automatically make it untrue? His mouth had gone dry, suddenly feeling sticky, like he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. But what could he say to that? It was what he’d wanted to hear for months now, but not like that. Bucky looked bitter, and melancholy, his eyes lowered to his drink. Bucky still cared about him, and he wasn’t happy about it. In fact, it looked like it scared him to death.

"You know I still love you…" Steve reminded him gently, Bucky’s eyes having gone unfocused. He gave an absent little snort, swallowing down the last of his drink. How many did that make?" Steve had seen two, but Bucky had already been fairly drunk before he had come in. He was sloshed now. Did that mean he was into the double digits already? 

Bucky, with numb fingers, slid the glass back towards the bar tender, murmuring something under his breath. But the bartender’s face had gone hard. He snatched the glass away from Bucky’s twitching fingertips, setting it behind him with a _chink._  He turned, planting his hands on the bar and leaning threateningly towards the two of them.

"I want you two to leave my establishment." He snarled coldly. Steve looked up, his brow drawing together in a frown. 

"We’re not causing any trouble." He said, his tone calm; clipped, but rational as he met the bearded man’s gaze.

"There are plenty of raunchy bars around Brooklyn for men like  _you,_ I don’t need you dirtying my business.” Steve felt anger flare in his chest, rising slowly to his feet.  The stool skidded back a few feet across the dull wooden floor with a scrape. 

"We have as much right to be here as anyone else, we’re paying costumers." He explained tightly, the bartender’s face reddening. 

"You’re faggots, and I won’t have you sullying my bar."

Beside him, Bucky lurched abruptly, slamming his hands down on the counter. “Shut up! Shut  _up_  you _ignorant_ bastard!” He snarled, his uncoordinated hands grabbing at the man behind the bar.

"Bucky!" Steve started, grabbing him around the waist and yanking him back.

"DON’T TOUCH ME!" Bucky roared, hitting and punching at Steve, his blows glancing off with little affect. 

"I’ll call security, I’ll have you run out of the neighborhood!" The bearded man threatened over Bucky’s shouting, and Steve tightened his grip around the furious man’s waist. 

"We’re going!" He snapped, his words thick with anger. Normally, he would fight for his right to be in a public place, but Bucky wasn’t doing well, and if it got violent he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take care of him. He pulled Bucky away from the counter. Every eye in the bar was fixed on the commotion up front, and Steve could feel their gazes boring into him. It was a show to them, just a bit of entertainment before they got on with their night. But Steve wasn't willing to be a cheep show for the drunken masses. He pulled Bucky along, still squirming, still yelling, until the reached the door. Finally, Steve succeeded in dragging Bucky out of the bar and into the muggy night air.


	3. Chapter 3

The night around them was hot and wet, the muggy air seeming to hold close to the ground. Light, and now laughter streamed from the windows of the bar. It had broken out immediately after Steve had drug Bucky out the door, the bartender yelling threats after them. What a laugh, what a joke; thrown out on their ear for  _daring_ to even  _mention_ loving each other. Hilarious. 

Bucky was still breathing heavily, his chest heaving, glazed eyes just now loosing their manic glint. At least he had stopped shouting now.  He looked like he was in bad shape though…really bad shape. 

"You alright Bucky? I didn’t hurt you did I?" Steve pressed, the anger and adrenaline slowly seeping from his body. 

Bucky scoffed, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth, swiping away the spittle clinging to his lower lip. “Done that plenty already haven’t you Stevie?” He slurred.

Okay. Ouch. Steve grimaced, running his fingers through his hair. He supposed he still deserved that.

"Look…" Bucky continued, his voice thick. "It’s been… _swell_  catching up with you…Nothing like getting thrown out the only place in this goddamn city where I can get cheep whiskey…But I should…be…” Bucky’s knees went weak and he dipped abruptly towards the pavement.   

Steve lunged, grabbing the dark haired man’s shoulder as his weight slumped heavily against him. A soft groan escaped his lips as he held Bucky against him, the other man murmuring feebly under his breath. This had to stop. Bucky was killing himself, and Steve would be damned if he didn't try to stop it. 

"Come on," Steve grunted, hauling Bucky up until his chin rested weakly on his shoulder. "Come on…I gotcha…" A pained moan pushed from between Bucky’s chapped lips, and he moved his hands to Steve’s chest, trying to push himself off of him. 

"mmm’fine…m’fine…just gonna…go home…" He slurred. "Go…home Steve just…go away…" Bucky whispered, his thick voice cracking. Steve gave a quiet hum under his breath, propping Bucky up just far enough to get his arm slung over his shoulder. 

"Nope." He said, the statement firm, and simple, giving no room for argument. "Come on Buck. I’m taking you home.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The evening had worn on, become muggier, and only slightly cooler as the sun had disappeared. The water content in the air was astronomical, and it made it difficult to breath. This boded ill for Bucky, as he was impaired already. The two men made it within a block of Bucky’s apartment before his lost it; surging away from Steve’s protective grip and vomiting in the gutter. This event reoccurred twice before Steve managed to help Bucky slump through the door of his apartment. 

"Here we go," Steve grunted, laying Bucky down on the couch. The man slipped heavily from his grip at the last moment, dropping to the cushions with a  _thump._   Steve stepped back a moment, giving him his space. Bucky wasn’t doing really great right now, he didn’t know what kind of a state of mind he was in. 

"Here…" He said, keeping his voice low, and gentle and he scrounged up a bucket from Bucky’s kitchen. He laid it down on the floor beside the couch, right where Bucky could get to it if his stomach remained unsettled. "Hey pal, there’s a bucket right here okay?" Steve pressed, touching Bucky’s shoulder. "It’s right here if you need it…"

Bucky’s brow drew into a deep frown, his eyes tightly closed.  ”Steve…” He murmured thickly, his breath hitching in his throat. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his face had gone pale and sick looking. Steve reached out, his expression twisting with pity as he tangled his fingers though Bucky’s damp hair. 

"I’m here Buck…What do you need? I’ll help you." He responded softly. Bucky’s countenance phased into a look of discomfort. Discomfort and…something else…desperation? confusion? His eyes opened slowly, looking glazed and bleary as he stared up at Steve. 

"I-" His voice caught in his throat, "I-Steve…I…I think I need help…" Steve’s chest tightened at the words, and a heartbroken little smile pulled at his lips. He knelt down beside him, his fingers still moving absently through his hair. 

"I know…I’m _going_  to help you okay? Just let me…” He whispered, touching his forehead affectionately to Bucky’s. The other man’s hair was damp with sweat, and his breath smelled faintly of whiskey and vomit, but Steve allowed himself to soak up the touch anyways.

"I miss you…" Bucky whispered, sounding weak, almost scared. 

Steve gave a quiet little chuckle. “Hey…” He murmured, I’ve missed you too, but you should sleep. You need to rest, especially since you’re going to have a killer hangover in the morning.” Steve wished he didn’t have to say that. He wanted to talked to Bucky, he wanted to talk to him for a long time, about everything. He wanted Bucky to open up and trust him again. But Steve had to remind himself that Bucky was still  _very_ drunk, and he was liable to say anything, even some things he didn’t mean. He could do that, to Bucky or himself.

And then suddenly, Bucky’s lips were on his. While Steve had been regretting conversations that just  _couldn’t_ be had, Bucky had leaned up from his reclined position and pressed his open mouth to Steve’s. His hands came up, curling into the other man’s hair and pulling him down closer. Steve could taste desperation on Bucky as prominently as he could sickness and whiskey. There was a lot more going on in Bucky’s conflicted mind then just anger. For the first time, Steve understood that vividly. Anger was not the only emotion Bucky felt towards him by far! He  _was_ angry, but he was also hurt, and scared. He was desperate, and lonely. He missed Steve…a part of him still loved Steve, and he hated himself for that. He wanted to be okay on his own, he wanted to be with Steve, he didn’t know what he wanted. 

Steve blinked, stunned by the feeling on Bucky’s warm, wet lips on his own. He shifted slightly, pulling back a little. “Bucky…” He murmured reluctantly, the dark haired man pulling him back down, their lips meeting again, forceful, and desperate. Steve grabbed Bucky’s jaw, breaking the kiss once more. “Bucky…Bucky! you’re drunk…”

"Tell me about it." He slurred, moving forward again but Steve pressed him back down to the couch. 

"No." Steve said sharply, forcing Bucky to look him in the eye. "You’re drunk, and you’re still angry at me. Now I’m not gonna let you do something that you’re going to regret in the morning." Steve hesitated slightly, before licking his lips, his resolve hardening. "Come on Bucky. I’m gonna take you to bed, and I want you to go right to sleep okay?" He pressed, Bucky reluctantly letting his fingers untwine from Steve’s hair. He was staring up at him, looking disoriented, and confused, like he wasn’t sure  _why_  Steve didn’t want him.

Steve reached down, carefully pulling Bucky back up to his feet, still having to support most of the other man’s wight. “Come on…” He grunted, fairly well dragging Bucky through the uneven door in the side of the living room and into Bucky’s own room. There wasn’t much to it, there wasn’t much to most _anything_ in Bucky’s apartment really, but it was a decent enough place to lay your head. 

Again, Steve eased Bucky down, more careful this time not to drop him. Bucky sunk to the mattress with a moan, his head turning towards Steve again. “Steve…” He murmured drunkenly, his finger’s curling around his before Steve’s hands had hardly pulled away from him. “Steve I…want you to stay here…”

Steve licked his lips, his chest tightening with emotion. There was nothing he wanted to do more that to curl up next to Bucky, let him fall asleep in his arms, hold him safe until the morning, but he couldn’t. Bucky would wake up sober the next morning, and the last thing he’d want was to wake up with Steve’s arms around him. The blond haired man leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. 

"I’m not gonna do that Buck…" He whispered, his voice touched with regret. "I’m going to go sleep out on the couch, I’ll be just in the other room if you need me…" He straightened up, his finger tracing softly over Bucky’s jawline as he stepped away. 

"Please…" Bucky whispered softly, that same, quiet note of desperation in his voice. "I love you."

Steve froze in the doorway, his hand resting over the light switch. A hard lump had formed in his throat, and he did his best to swallow it down. He blinked rapidly, trying to blink back the moisture in his vision. “Get some sleep Bucky…” He whispered huskily, clicking off the light and closing the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of rain pounding on the tin roof of the apartment was impossibly loud. It felt like someone was hitting him in the head with a brick with every sheet of rain that struck the roof. Bucky moaned softly, curling into a tight ball and pulling his pillow over his ears. His head was throbbing, and his mouth tasted foul…but his lips were tingling.

Bucky managed to open his eyes, his lashes crusted together from sleep. The watery gray light that managed to leak through the window was still far too bright, and the sound of the whipping rain seemed to be trying to split his head open. Was it bad that his first thought upon waking up with a hangover was _'I need a drink'_? Probably.

The dark haired man managed to get himself up into a sitting position, blinking his bleary eyes and looked around the room. His eyes came to rest on his night stand. A glass of water and two aspirin lay there, right within reach, but he hadn’t been the one to set them there. “What the hell happened last night?” Bucky murmured to himself, even his own whispered voice seeming to be too loud.

Bucky tried to piece together the events of the night from his fragmented memory. There wasn’t much to work with. He remembered leaving work and going to the bar, _that_ he could remember clearly enough, although things began to break up from that point forward.

And then he remembered with a jolt. _Steve_ had been there, at the bar, he’d sat a few stools down from him. Bucky thought that they might have spoken. And then…yelling? Had he been kicked out? Bucky hissed curses quietly under his breath. That wasn’t good, it was the cheapest, most accessible place for him, if he’d gotten kicked out…

Bucky shook himself back to his current task. What else? What else had happened before he’d ended up back in his own bed? There was a large expanse of time that was foggy, and unclear, and Bucky couldn’t pinpoint a single event that had happened in that span of time.

Suddenly, like a punch to the gut, Bucky was struck with a crystal clear memory of Steve’s warm, chapped lips against his. Adrenaline dumped into his system, coursing through his bloodstream as the pounding in his head grew suddenly worse. Bucky’s breathed caught in his throat as he tried not to panic. What else? What else!

He remembered the feeling of kissing Steve, of being kissed _by_ Steve? He didn’t know, he could discern who’s decision it had been, and that in itself was terrifying. Had he broken? He he blurted out the complicated and confusing emotions he battled constantly when he was around him? Had he said something stupid and desperate? Had it been him?

Had Steve been weak? Had he brought him home from the bar? Had he laid him down on the couch and kissed him? Had Steve taken advantage of a moment when he couldn’t think clearly and pressed some intimate contact on him that Bucky was _sure_ he wasn’t ready for? Both options where equally terrifying.

Bucky stumbled to his feet, wracking his brain for anything else that he could take hold of in the fog of his hung-over mind. What else had happened? Steve had been the one to take him into his room, Bucky was certain of it. One snippet of memory followed another, piecing together, but not completely. It was a little like a puzzle where all the pieces could be found and connected, save for the one’s that formed the subject. Bucky could piece together a little bit about the night, but not what he needed.

He remembered leaning against Steve as he drug him into his room. He remembered Steve laying him down on the mattress, leaning over him…he remembered his finger’s tracing across his jawline. And after that? Nothing. The last thing Bucky could recall was the sight of Steve leaning over him, gently touching his face with calloused fingers.

The dark haired man drew in a shuddering breath that made his head pound. He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like not know who’s decision had been who’s. He didn’t like not being able to tell what did, or didn’t happen.

Bucky made his way to the door, his body seeming to weigh him down, pulling at his every step. Simply lifting his hand to grip the doorknob made his body ache and the horrific throbbing in his skull get worse. Numb fingers grasped the handled and Bucky pushed the door open with an ear grating creak or, at least, it seemed ear grating to Bucky’s raw, heightened senses. The sight that greeted him sent another spike of adrenalin through his body.

Steve lay on the couch in the living room, one around thrown over his eyes, his other hand resting on his bare chest. The man’s blond hair was tousled, and unkempt and his mouth hung open slightly. Steve’s chest still rose and fell in the natural pattern of sleep. _‘Steve Rogers is in my apartment…’_

Bucky drew in an uncertain breath, staring down at the sleeping form of the man he had loved. Even at rest, Steve looked worried, he could see it in the set of his mouth. Bucky was sure the set of his brow would reflect it just as clearly, but Steve’s forearm still rested over his eyes.

Steve stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips and he shifted his arm away from his face, blinking slowly. For a moment, his field of vision was dominated purely by the water-damaged ceiling of Bucky’s apartment; and the he caught a tiny movement. Steve sat up, a little frown tugging at his brow. As he saw Bucky though, still standing in the doorway of his bedroom, the frown relaxed. He assumed a reserved, but encouraging smile, running his fingers though his bed-tousled hair.

"Morning." He greeted him in a soft tone. Bucky stared, his expression closed, and searching. His gaze bored into Steve for several long moment before he dropped his gaze, stepping into the kitchen.

Steve breathed a disappointed sigh. So that was it; Bucky was sober and they were back to the silent treatment. He had almost forgotten that Bucky was only talking to him last night because he was drunk, and the alcohol had weakened his resolve and loosened his lips. Steve was glad that Bucky was sober, he was hoping he could convince him to _stay_ that way for a bit, but he was going to miss speaking to him in more than singular words.

"What happened last night?" Bucky demanded, his tone low, and serious. Steve blinked in surprise, turning to face him with a stunned expression. Never mind then, apparently they were still talking.

Steve exhaled softly, grabbing his shirt from the floor of the living room and pulling into on over his head. He’d need to keep this as simple as possible. Bucky probably felt like shit and he wasn’t going to have time for lengthy explanations.

"I went to the bar last night. You and I spoke while we were there but we got kicked out, s-"

"Why?" Bucky pressed, in a clipped voice. Steve paused for a moment, licking his lips.

"I…mentioned our history…together…Bartender heard and got angry, had us thrown out." He said simply. Bucky’s lips tightened, and he turned away, going through one of the kitchen cupboards. Steve drew in a hesitant breath, deciding it would be best to continue. "You weren’t doing really well…" He explained quietly. "So I brought you back here. I wanted to make sure that you’d be alright…so I stayed…"

Bucky swallowed hard, his hands shaking slightly. The dark haired man turned to Steve, his gaze locking unashamedly with his.

"What _else.”_ He pressed. Bucky needed to know this. He need to know what had happened with the kiss, what had happened after his patchy memory left him in the dark. He needed to know the extent of the damage.

Steve’s tongue slid out slowly to moisten his lips, his eyes dropping away from Bucky’s. The other man was fragile right now, he didn’t know what might set him off…or hurt him…make him worse…But he had to be honest with him. He wasn’t going to lie to Bucky again.

"You kissed me…" He said simply, and he saw Bucky’s face wash a shade paler. "I guess…you weren’t thinking very clearly…I-"

"You kissed me back?" Bucky asked huskily, gripping the edge of the counter so hard that his finger’s ached. His heart was pounding, each throb sending a stab of pain up his spine and into his skull. He felt like he was going to be sick again. Steve pinched his lips into a tight line, giving a little shake of his head.

"No…I knew you were still mad at me…" This encouraged a bitter snort from Bucky, who’s grip had loosened slightly on the counter. He turned to face Steve, coming closer with a guarded expression.

"If you didn’t kiss me back…then…nothing happened…when you took me to bed…" He pressed, a note of relief already entering his voice. Steve’s cheeks flushed slightly pink and he looked up from the ground, his gazed locking with Bucky’s.

"No! Bucky, nothing happened." He said, sounded a little hurt. Steve gave a soft scoff  of disbelief. "You were drunk…I wouldn’t have done that to you."

Now it was Bucky’s turn to give a bitter scoff. “Well apparently I can’t tell what the hell _I_ would have done last night since apparently _I_ kissed _you_.” He said, sounding angry, but Steve was surprised to realizing that the anger wasn’t directed at him. Bucky was angry with _himself_. Bucky pressed a hand over his mouth, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. Steve had seen him do this on more then one occasion, but usually only when he was really upset.

After a moment, Bucky dropped the hand away from his mouth, letting his arm swing by his side. He seemed to be trying to adopt an air of almost casualness. “Whatever…It’s fine…” He murmured, running his fingers though his hair as his eyes dropped to the floor. “Wouldn’t’ve blamed you…not like it hasn’t happened before…”

Steve’s eyes snapped up to him, his cheeks flushing with anger “What?” He asked, the word hanging heavy in the silence. Bucky turned away towards the kitchen but Steve reached forward, grabbing his upper arm. “Bucky,” He said firmly, his face lined with concern. “Bucky, who hurt you?”

Bucky yanked his arm out of his grip, turning back, face twisted with pain. “Who hasn’t?” He snapped. Steve’s words died in his throat as Bucky’s eyes, livid with pain, met his. Slowly, the look of agony  reflected in Bucky’s eyes lost it’s edge and he looked away again.

"Look…" He said with a bitter sigh. "You knew from the first day we met that I had a track record of bad relationships…You don’t think some of those guys didn’t take advantage of me?" He pressed, his voice dull, and resigned. "You don’t think I’ve been too drunk to walk home by myself before?" Bucky snorted. "I’ve trusted guys to get me back somewhere safe, so I won’t end up dead in a ditch…Instead…I get to end up sore, bruised, naked, and alone…lucky me…"

Steve stared at Bucky, unable to fathom how so many people could be so cruel as to hurt someone who had trusted them to protect them. Bucky was right, he _had_ known that he had a string of bad relationships in the past, but Steve had had no idea of just how bad the damage had been. “Bucky…” He whispered softly, reaching out to touch his fingers to his. For a moment, Bucky pulled his hand away, and then he wavered, allowing it to fall back to his side, allowing Steve to gently intertwine their fingers.

He stood with his back to Steve, lips pinched together, eyes focused straight ahead. Bucky could feel Steve move forward. He could feel his soft, hot breath moving through his hair as Steve’s hand tightened in his own. Bucky flinched slightly as Steve’s free hand touch his shoulder. The blond haired man stopped abruptly, his hand hovering a few centimeter’s away. He waited until the man’s tensed muscles began to relax before he softly rested his hand against Bucky’s shoulder, keeping the touch light, and gentle.

Bucky closed his eyes, swallowing hard. He didn’t know what was coming for him, weather he would continue to force the gap between himself and Steve wider, or weather he would slip, loose his grip on control, and fall in love with Steve all over again. Both options were equally frightening.

Slowly, Steve closed the gap between them, Bucky’s back resting against his chest. He dipped his head, his chin touching Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky?” He pressed again, this time, a question.

A quiet, uncertain noise escaped Bucky, and Steve gave his hand a calming squeeze.

"I won’t hurt you…" Steve murmured into his hair, his thumb absently stroking along Bucky’s hand. "I made some really big mistakes before…and I lost you…and I’m sorry…It was the worst mistake I’ve made in my entire life…" He whispered, his hand sliding carefully up his neck, gently turning Bucky’s face towards him.

Bucky met his gaze, haunted, and conflicted. Steve licked his lips uncertainly, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m not gonna stop loving you Bucky…but I won’t _make_ you love me…I won’t do that to you…that, or anything else…But you _have_ to know that I love you…” He breathed, his forehead touching Bucky’s.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying to wrap his mind around everything, trying to sort his emotions faster than his brain was capable. He parted his lips to speak but no words formed; nothing. There was nothing he could say.

Steve carefully unlaced their fingers, moving his hand up to tangle affectionately through Bucky’s hair. He could feel Bucky’s hot breath on his lips, he could still smell the faint traces of whiskey. Steve swallowed hard, turning completely now so that he was chest to chest with Bucky, their face’s centimeters apart, Steve’s hands cupping Bucky’s face.

"Can I kiss you?" Steve murmured, his nose brushing softly against Bucky’s.

"Don’t you dare…" Bucky responded in a cracked whisper. A sad little smile tugged at Steve’s lips and he pulled back slightly, still standing close to him with his hands cupping his face.

Bucky slowly opened his eyes, meeting Steve’s gaze. “We..” He started, his voice gravely and uncertain. “We…should get to work…” Steve was shaking his head before he was even finished.

"It’s pouring. You’re hungover. I’m emotionally compromised. We’re not going to work." He said, offering him a little smile. "Did you even take the aspirin I left you?"

"No…" Bucky admitted, and Steve stepped away from him with a sigh.

"Go on and have a seat," He encouraged him. "I’ll get it for you."


	5. Chapter 5

It was strange…being in the same room as Steve…He had sat him down and insisted he have water and aspirin. He’d gone around the apartment, closing windows tighter, and shoving rags into the cracks that let frigid, wet air in under the doors. The muggy heat from the day before had burned off, and the pounding rain brought with it cold drafts of air from deep in the ground.

After everything that had passed between them earlier that morning it seemed stupid for them not to talk to each other. Bucky was still wary though; his responses were always guarded, and weighed carefully, but Steve seemed to appreciate it anyways. 

Bucky’s headache had persisted through the morning, the aspirin only just taking the edge off of it. Steve suggested he rest while he made lunch. Unfortunately, there was a minor snag in the plan. There was very little food in Bucky’s cupboards. Naturally, Bucky grumbled that it would be fine, that he could make do with what was there, but Steve thought differently.  He made sure that Bucky had everything he would need for a bit,  _insisted_ he rest, and donned his coat to go food shopping.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky awoke, groggy, and disoriented, to the sound of his front door rattling closed. Steve winced slightly. The wind outside had sucked the door handle from his grip closing it louder than he had intended. He had hoped that he could have slipped in without waking Bucky, but apparently that was not going to happen. 

Bucky’s sleep-tousled head of hair appeared over the back of the couch. The skin under his eyes was still dark  and lined, but there was a chance that the eyes themselves looked a little more clear. Bucky’s brow drew into a disgruntled frown. 

"You’re soaking…" He rasped, but this time, his voice was rough from sleep, not pain, or drunkenness.

Steve turned, flashing him an easy grin, ignoring the water streaming from his hair and into his eyes. “Didn’t you know?” He asked with a grin, “It’s raining outside.” He shed his soaking coat, laying it over the back of a chair and ruffling his fingers through his dripping blond hair. He was freezing, and soaked to the skin, but it didn’t matter, Bucky was  _talking_ to him again!

"Soaking  _and_  chipper…” Bucky muttered, flopping back onto the couch. “Charming…” 

A soft little laugh escaped Steve as he began to re-stock Bucky’s cabinets with the groceries he had bought. He made sure to leave out anything he thought that he may need for making lunch. He wanted something with protein, something that would get Bucky back on the right track after being sloshed the night before, but it also couldn’t be something that would be too hard on his stomach. Steve didn’t know, it may be delicate yet. 

He had just begun cutting up a fresh, crisp green pepper when the couch creaked as Bucky sat up once more. “Steve.” He said, his voice firm now, demanding his full attention. 

Steve blinked, turning to face him. “Yes?” He responded, his eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Bucky’s nose wrinkled in a scrunched scowl. “You’re dripping on the floor.” He said, pulling himself up off the couch with a quiet little groan. Steve’s lips pulled into a smirk and he began to respond, but Bucky had already disappeared into his bedroom. 

He returned a few minutes later, a pile of wrinkled clothing in his hands. “Here…” He murmured, holding them out to him. The faintest trace of pink began to rise in Bucky’s cheeks as Steve took the clothing from his up-turned hands. He tried not to think  _too_  much about Steve wearing his clothing. He tried not to think too much about the times Steve had worn his clothing in the past…or the times he had worn his…Steve’s clothes had always been soft, and comfortable; they had always smelled nice…

Bucky shook himself abruptly, mentally kicking himself for spacing out like that. While he’d been thinking, Steve had apparently already thanked him and taken the clothing to the bathroom to change. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve was grateful for the change of clothing. It was good to peel the clingy, wet clothing off of his body. He would have frozen in them for sure, but it was a risk he’d been willing to take. 

He pulled Bucky’s plain cotton t-shirt over his head, greeted instantly by the musky, woody scent that he loved so much. The smell of Bucky’s cologne was one he never tired of. It reminded him of easier time, times when he hadn’t had to work to make Bucky smile, times when Bucky had trusted him and loved him in return. 

He smoothed the shirt down over his stomach, adjusting the hem over the waistline of Bucky’s trousers. They weren’t a perfect fit; the pants were a little short in the leg, and the shirt hugged his body in a fashion that was almost embarrassing, but they were warm, and dry, and they smelled like Bucky. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bucky glanced up as Steve stepped out of the bathroom, and instantly had to force himself not to stare. The sight of Steve, still damp from the rain, and wearing slightly ill-fitting clothing, was a little more rewarding that Bucky wanted to let on. Probably a bit more of a turn-on than he was willing to let on too. Either way, it was getting hard and harder to remind himself that he was upset with Steve. Maybe, rather than reminding himself to be upset now, he just had to remind himself to be cautious. 

Bucky cleared his throat, dropping his eyes away. “Now you’re not going to catch you death…” He muttered under his breath.

Steve granted him a small smile, his fingers brushing softly against Bucky’s elbows as he walked back to the counter.  ”Thanks for lending them to me.” He said appreciatively, earning a little, embarrassed nod from Bucky. “How’s the headache?” Steve asked as he finished finely chopping the pepper. 

Bucky shrugged, pawing absent through the groceries Steve had bought. “Better now,” He admitted. “The rain isn’t helping though.”

Steve smirked, pulling a tomato from one of the damp paper bags and chunking it, adding it to the pile of pepper. “I bet it doesn’t.” He murmured affectionately. 

"We’re going to get in trouble for missing work." Bucky pointed out bluntly, and Steve nodded absently, not replying until he had finished cutting up four or five mushrooms. Once he was done, he swiped the knife across the cutting board, adding the mushrooms to the rest of the veggies and turning to Bucky. 

"Do you like working at the docks?" He asked, his gaze piercing into him. The question was serious, and earnest, demanding a straightforward answer.

"No," Bucky admitted, "Of course not…"

"Ever thought of quitting? Trying something else?" Steve pressed, and Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Nowhere’s gonna want to take me Steve!" He said, looking frustrated at even being asked. "I’ve tried. People know other people business here, and no business is going to take a gay guy who’d been disgraced and discharged from the navy, it just doesn’t happen!" Bucky sighed, the burst of frustration causing his head to throb again. He reached up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Steve fell silent for a few moment, absently cracking four eggs into Bucky’s cast-iron pan. His tongue slid out to moisten his lips as he considered his next words. “Ever though of starting something on your own? No one can stop you from running your  _own_  business if you have all the right papers.”

Bucky blinked, suddenly considering that. It would be difficult, it would be risky, but it  _may_  work…. “I don’t know…” He murmured, watching as Steve added the vegetables to the omelets, whisking them in with milk before getting the pan on over the heat. “I don’t have that kind of money…”

"I’ve been saving." Steve said absently, continuing his cooking as though he hadn’t just suggested whet Bucky thought he was suggesting. "We could work together." He offered after Bucky had let the silence hang. 

Bucky glanced down, his cheeks warming slightly. Why was he letting himself like that idea? The thought of working with Steve, of owning a small business together…it sounded…nice…He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what kind of business it would be, but it  _had_  to be better than the arduous, taxing, poorly-paying labor he did down at the docks. 

"Would you… _like_  to do something like that?” He asked hesitantly, glancing over to study his expression. Bucky glanced up for a moment before dropping his eyes away.

"Dunno…" He murmured noncommittally, "I’ll have to think about it…"

Steve nodded, pursing his lips. “Okay, that’s fine. I just thought I’d mention it.” He added, carefully flipping the eggs and letting the other sides cook before plating them. “Here,” He said quietly, passing Bucky the plate, receiving a murmured ‘thank you’ in response. 

Steve let his suggestion sink in over lunch, very few words being exchanged between them as they ate. Both men were content to let the silence settle over them. The rain continued to pound on the roof outside, and the sound of water rushing through the gutters drifted up to them from the street. But inside the apartment, things were warm and dry. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes sat across from each other, knee-to-knee at the kitchen table, slowly breaking down the barrier that had been forced between them. 


	6. Chapter 6

The dishes were cleared, and the food put away before the two men ever left the kitchen.The only thing that they left behind them was the suggestion of future work together. Bucky needed time to think about it, so Steve neglected to mention it again. That being said, lunch itself had gone very well. The omelet that Steve had made him had been just enough on Bucky’s sensitive stomach to satisfy him without making him feel I’ll again. Although, with the memory of puking his guts out multiple times the night before still fresh in his mind, Bucky decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get changed into clean clothing for he remainder of the day.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bucky sat on the edge of his narrow bed, fully dressed now in clean clothing. He had been sitting there for some time now, his gaze unfocused, staring off at a point somewhere in the corner of the room. Today had been…strange…but it would be a boldfaced lie to say that a part of him hadn’t enjoyed it. He’d tried not to; he’d  _tried_  to keep being angry at Steve, but he couldn’t…not anymore.

A light tap on the door startled Bucky out of his thoughts, the dark haired man jumping in alarm. “Yes.” He said sharply, the door pushing open.

Naturally, it was Steve who stood in the doorway. Bucky ill-fitting shirt stretched over his chest and biceps, pulling dangerously as Steve absently crossed his arms over his chest. There was a look of carefully measured concern of his face. “You okay Buck?” he asked. Bucky had been closed in his room for a while now, and Steve had grown worried that maybe he’d started feeling sick again. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave Bucky alone when he needed his help.

Bucky blinked rapidly, catching his breath before answering. “Yes. I’m fine, I- sorry…” He murmured, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Got distracted….thinking…” He added absently, looking away.

Steve smiled affectionately at the other man, going over and sinking down on he bed beside him. “Sounds dangerous. Wanna talk about it?” He asked, his tone open. He didn’t want to pressure Bucky into talking about something he didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want to neglect an opportunity to speak honestly with him.

Bucky dropped his gaze away completely, silent, and uncomfortable. Steve let the silence stretch between them for several moments before giving a small, sad smile. If he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready, and that was the bottom line. Steve had just moved to stand again when Bucky spoke, the words coming out quiet, and honest.

"I’m so tired if being angry at you…"

Steve blinked, turning back to face him, disbelief written all over his face. “What?” He asked hardly daring to hope that he might have heard what he thought he’d heard.

Bucky licked his lips, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “I’m tired of being angry at you, Steve.” He repeated firmly, turning now to face him, his gaze boring into the blond haired man. “It’s been four, almost five months, and I’m _exhausted._  Hating you is the hardest thing I ever had to do, because I never  _wanted_  to do it in the first place.” He said, the weariness showing in his face. “Now I don’t  _want_  to trust you, I don’t  _want_  to get hurt again, but something has to change here because I can’t hate you for one _second_ longer.”

Steve stared at Bucky, a look of stunned amazement etched on his features. Bucky seemed completely serious. He wasn’t being bitter, or satirical. His emotions seemed raw, and vulnerable, like an exposed nerve. Bucky wasn’t hiding anymore. Bucky wasn’t hiding, and Steve had no idea how to respond.

He felt like an idiot, just sitting there and gapping. Bucky was giving him he opening he’d been pining for for months, and he couldn’t even say anything! Steve swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

"I…" He started, his voice catching in his throat. "I never wanted you to hate me Buck…"

Bucky snorted, a bitter little smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I know. You’ve been telling me.”

"Is the anything I can say that I  _haven’t_  said before?” Steve asked uncertainly, earning a shake of his head from Bucky.

"Nope." He said, a note of conviction in his voice.

"Then you already know that I’m sorry."

"Yep…"

"And that I regret what happened between us every day…" Bucky hesitated a moment, looking up to him. Steve reach out, his fingers brushing ever so gently along his jawline. "And you already know that I messed up, and I was stupid and selfish." He whispered his forehead touching Bucky’s now.

"And you know that…I think you’re the most amazing man I've ever met…you know that…I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve your smile, I don’t deserve to kiss you, and I certainly didn’t deserve the short time that I _did_  get to have you…but I cant help myself…because I love you…” Steve swallowed hard, his breath coming out in hot shaky gasps. “And…I-I’m sure you know that I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you…”

Bucky’s wide eyed gaze locked on Steve. His breath was frozen in his throat. He couldn’t breath, his heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour. “I-” he croaked, feeling Steve’s warm breath on his lips. “I didn’t know that…”

Steve gave a soft little laugh, feeling his hands trembling against Bucky’s jawline. “Well…now you do…” He offered feebly.

Bucky managed a shaky nod, a choked little laugh escaping his dry lips. “Y-Yeah…” He stammered, his skin tingling wherever Steve’s hand’s rested. The back of his neck prickled as one of his hands slid from his jawline down to his neck.

Bucky seemed to be hyper-aware of everything. He was aware of Steve’s forehead pressing warmly against his, and the thin film of moisture that had formed there in the tension of the moment. He was conscious of the other man’s hands resting on his neck and jawline, and of just how close their lips had gotten. Steve’s breath was warm between their barely separated lips, coming out in short, uncertain gasps. 

"Can I-" Steve started, but he wouldn’t get to finish his question.

Bucky’s hands moved up to Steve’s shoulders and he guided him forward, closing the distance between their lips.  

Steve’s breath caught in his throat as he and Bucky shared their first sober, consensual kiss in months. The rough, desperate kiss that Bucky had press to his mouth the night before had felt wrong. It was too forceful, too aggressive. Bucky had been drunk, and for as much as Steve had missed the feeling of Bucky’s lips on his own, he couldn’t have let that continue.

But this…this felt right. It felt natural and comfortable. No one was forcing anyone else, no one would wake up the next morning with no recollection of the event. Bucky had chosen to kiss Steve, and the realization that he just might be winning him back cause a knot of emotion to form in Steve's throat.

Steve’s hand moved back up to Bucky’s face, drawing him in closer and deepening the kiss. There was nothing rough, or forceful about it. In fact, the kiss was softer, more gentle, and more tender then any that had passed between them before. But Steve needed him, he needed him closer, he needed to touch him to really know that this wasn’t a dream, that Bucky was his again.

Bucky felt a shiver run up his spine, his body flushing with warmth as Steve’s hand began moving over his chest and back. Bucky _loved_ to be touched, without positive contact he grew withdrawn, and depressed. Now, as Bucky receive the first taste of positive contact in months, he felt something in him beginning to unwind. Something that had been knotted up inside of him, was beginning to come loose under Steve’s gentle touch. 

His arm slid around the back of Steve’s neck pulling himself in closer, one hand still gripping Steve’s shirt. This whole situation felt so unreal, like if he allowed himself let go, he’d wake up again, alone, and unloved. So he held tightly to Steve, and didn’t let go.

Steve, with still trembling fingers, carefully began undoing the buttons of Bucky’s shirt, pushing the material aside. Bucky broke the kiss for a moment, breathing heavily, his gaze dropping down. He glanced back up at Steve, hold his gaze, breathless, wordless, before leaning in again. His finger’s moved up, moving gently through Steve’s hair as he kissed him again. Steve’s lips were warm and moist against his, moving with a soft, yet firm pressure that made Bucky want to melt. 

Steve’s hand moved over Bucky’s shoulder, sliding his shirt off his arms and letting the soft fabric drop to the bedding. The air was cool against Bucky’s exposed skin, but he didn’t mind, Steve was warm enough. 

Bucky shifted slight as he felt Steve’s hand clasp over his own, gently prying his fingers loose from his shirt. He didn’t want to let go, he didn’t want to wake up. But Steve’s hand over his was firm, and comforting, so he allowed his cramping fingers to relax and pull away. Steve pulled Bucky’s too-small shirt off over his head, absently letting it drop before leaning in; this time, softly kissing down Bucky’s neck. 

A soft noise escaped Bucky’s lips as Steve kissed his neck, moving from his jawline, down his throat, and all the way to below his collar bone. Steve pressed a hand to his chest, gently guiding him down until he felt the rough,creaking mattress give slightly beneath his shoulder blades. The blond hair man shifted over top of him, beginning to press soft kisses to every inch of Bucky he could reach. His hands moved gently down Bucky’s waist, his touch soft, and delicate. 

It was almost too much to believe. How could it have happened that Bucky was his again? That he was allowed to kiss him, and touch him, that he was allowed to be with him again. Steve was almost afraid that it  _wasn’t_  real, that he too would wake up and Bucky would, again, be out of reach. So he did the only thing he could, he kissed him; he kissed every inch of him he could, and prayed that he really was his to keep. 

Steve’s lips traced soft patterned over his chest and rib cage, over his stomach and hips. He kissed softly up the length of Bucky’s body, again, concentrating on Bucky’s throat, feeling his adam’s apple move against his lips as he swallowed. His hands moved down, gently sliding down the front of Bucky’s trousers, putting gentle pressure on Bucky’s cock. 

A soft gasp escaped Bucky, and Steve looked up, seeing his lover’s brow drawn into a frown. “Bucky?” He murmured, pressing one more soft kiss to his throat. “You alright?” The dark haired man’s breath hitched in his throat and he swallowed hard, his expression still written with discomfort. Steve slowly slid his hand out of Bucky’s trousers, waiting patiently. Silence wasn’t an answer, and he wasn’t going a single step further until he had a definite ‘yes’.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed tightly closed, and his breathing was choppy, and uneven. “I'm-” He started uncertainly, his voice husky, and weak. “I’m scared.”

Steve froze, staring down at him, trying to register the look on Bucky’s face. He shifted slowly, not wanting to startle him as he eased himself slowly off to the side. Steve sunk down beside him so that Bucky didn’t feel that he was holding him down, and patiently waited for him to continue. 

Bucky opened his eyes slowly, blinking before turned his head to meet Steve’s gaze. The haunted look had returned to his eyes and his lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he finally was able to speak. “I’m scared to  _death_  of falling in love with you again…” He whispered.

At the confession, a gentle smile tugged at Steve’s lips and he cupped Bucky’s face in his hand, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. “You don’t have to be scared…” Steve murmured, his lips brushing against Bucky’s as he spoke. “It’s okay…I won’t hurt you…” He took a deep, steadying breath, his hand brushing gently over his hair. “But, if you want, we can wait…We don’t have to do this right now…or _ever,_ if that’s what you want.” 

Bucky blinked, his lashes brushing softly across Steve’s cheekbone. “No…” He murmured distractedly. “I…I don’t think not  _ever…._ Maybe just…not yet?” He asked huskily, lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s. As Steve's light blue eyes met Bucky's dark ones a moment of understanding past between them. Bucky was scared  _because_  he was beginning to love Steve again. After four months Steve had found the dusty old box that Bucky had locked his heart away in, and he was going poking inside. If Bucky let Steve in, if he let him lift the fragile, injured heart from it’s prison, amazing things could happen. He could heal, he could love Steve, and know he was loved in return. But the heart, already so tattered and broken, also ran the risk of being completely destroyed if it wasn’t handled with the utmost care. 

Steve nodded his head understandingly, his thumb brushing across Bucky’s cheekbone. “Okay…” Steve murmured, giving him a reassuring smile. “Okay, we’ll give it time…You alright here?” He asked, wanted to insure the comfort of the love of his life.

Bucky managed a little smile in return. “Yeah…” He whispered, curling in closer to him, allowing Steve to wrap a strong arm around his bare shoulder. Bucky wasn’t ready to give all of himself over just yet, but the longer Steve held him in a warm embrace, the more he felt comfortable, and safe. Bucky slowly began to relinquish the rigid control he had held over his emotions. He began to allow himself to feel a thrill of excitement when Steve pressed gentle kisses to his lips or neck, he allowed warm pleasure to spread through his chest as Steve’s fingers traced up and down his spine.

Finally, after so long, Bucky let himself be completely vulnerable as he lay there, curled up with Steve. And falling in love with him again wasn’t at all what he had expected. It was wild, and uncontrolled, it wasn’t anything he was guilted or forced into. It was soft and gentle; it felt like tender kisses, and it smelled like rain.


	7. Chapter 7

Rain drizzled from the watery, gray sky, misting lightly down over the dogged, miserable dock workers.  Vision was limited and the concert, slick under foot, made hauling cargo treacherous. But work at the docks didn’t stop; it hadn’t stopped yesterday in the downpour, and it wouldn’t be stopping today in the drizzle.

Despite the trouble Steve and Bucky had gotten into for failing to show up to work, Bucky couldn’t make himself regret it. It had been too important; too many good things hand happened for him ever to regret it. In his own mind, Bucky fancied that his lips still felt warm from Steve’s even though the cold, wet wind had chilled, and chapped them almost raw.

Bucky hefted a huge crate up off the ground, wincing as the muscles in his arms strained. His body had grown accustom to the consecutive days of work, but even just one day off had broken his pattern, and his muscles were reluctant to do as they were instructed. Still, moving helped to beat off the relentless wet chill in the air, so he continued to push himself.

"Need a hand?" The call was a casually teasing echo of what Steve had asked him so many times in he past. This time though, the question brought a small smile to his lips.

"No, I think I’ve got it." He called in response, smirking. Despite his assurance, he felt the weight of the box decrease as Steve supported the other end. The blond haired man caught his eye over the top of the rough-hewn box, grinning.

"I know you do." Steve responded; cheery despite the rain. It seemed that since yesterday, Steve had been glowing, and Bucky felt his protective walls crumbling faster. The pure delight that Steve seemed to feel at having him back was too open, and too honest to be a lie. Although, After months of avoiding eye contact and staring at his feet, Bucky was having a hard time adjusting to the look of pure adoration in Steve’s eyes. After everything that had happened between them, he didn’t understand how Steve could still look at him that way.

Steve watched as Bucky dropped his gaze away, a small smile tugging at his lips. Droplets of mist clung to his lashes, brushing against his cheekbones. He was just as stunning as they day they’d met, although he still seemed to bear a weight of weariness. Steve was convinced that that too would fade in time. He was convinced that with time, and care, Bucky would loose to look of sleeplessness around his eyes, his body would no longer drag at his every step, and his mind would no longer depend on alcohol to hold painful memories at bay.

The two men worked in sync after that first crate; working together to haul one after another over to the loading area. As much Bucky felt the need to prove himself, and Steve couldn’t stand to back down from a challenge, the two men could both admit that having the other was a welcomed help. Work on the docks was brutal, but it became tolerable if you had someone to share it with.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bucky and Steve stepped under an overhanging roof to get out of the drizzle after they had finally been able to punch out of work, Steve ruffling his finger through his soaking hair.

"Got plans tonight Buck?" Steve asked casually, blinking the water out of his eyes and looking over at him. Like himself, Bucky was soaked to the skin, his plain gray shirt clinging most attractively to the curves of his body. Strand of wet brunet hair stuck to his cheeks and forehead and droplets of water traced their path before sliding down his jawline. A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips, and he glanced up at the blond haired man.

"I thought we were taking things slow." He accused, his hooded eyes glinting slightly. As strange as it was to hear Bucky teasing him again, it was nice. He was beginning to sound more like himself.

Steve ducked his head, a shy grin playing on his features. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said, looking back up to meet his gaze. The light of sarcasm in Bucky’s expression confirmed that he was only teasing. 

Bucky wrinkled his nose slightly, craning his head to see the dingy gray sky overhead. “We’ll, since you’re not planning on taking me out, I guess I’ll be stay home.” He said, stuffing wet hand in dirty pockets.

"Not going out for a drink?"

"Not unless you’re buying."

A short snort of laughter escaped Steve and he followed Bucky’s gaze up to the watery, gray dome over-head. “I though you hit the bars most every night. What’s changed?”

Bucky turned to look at him, seeing his profile lit by the muted white light, his gaze still fixed above them. “Honestly Steve, you should know this.” Bucky remarked, “I may have been sloshed but I  _remember_  telling you.” Steve turned to face him, considering the hint, his brow drawn into a frown.

Bucky snorted softly. “I told you; I drank so that I could forget about you…’cause…you were on my mind…all the time, and I couldn’t shake it…” He trailed off uncertainly, scuffing the tip of his worn shoe against the rough, gravelly pavement. “Guess I don’t have to anymore.”

Steve smiled faintly, reaching out and catching Bucky hand, twining their wet, calloused fingers together. Bucky smirked, a coy look creeping into his gaze as he gave him a side-long glance.

"Besides, I doubt you’d let me, considering you’re so against me drinkin’."

Steve turned to him, a look of teasing offense on his face. “I’m not  _against_  you drinking Bucky,” he scoffed. “I’m against you getting so sloshed you can’t stand and spiraling into self-destructive alcoholism. Besides…” Steve added absently, “I’m actually rather fond of this one bar; little old thing on a navy base in the middle of the pacific.” He glanced over at Bucky seeing the realization slowly dawning in his eyes. “Met a knock-out fella there once…brown hair…blue eyes…a smirk that could drive ya nuts…”

Bucky turned to fully face him, a cocky lift to his chin, the very smirk Steve had spoken of playing on his lips. “Y’know, I think I’ve been there.” He said, a teasing note in his silky, sleepy voice. Bucky’s long fingers closed around the collar of Steve’s shirt, drawing him closer. “Kinda fond of it myself,” he murmured, chapped pink lips almost touching Steve’s as he spoke. “Then again, it’s also bar number two that I’ll never be allowed back in thanks to you.”

Steve expression dropped into a look of disgruntlement as he pulled away from Bucky’s smirking, teasing lips. “You had to bring that up?” He asked his voice carrying a tone of annoyance. Bucky shrugged craning forward again for the kiss that Steve was now holding just out of reach.

"T’s true." Bucky countered, his grip tightening on his collar until Steve caved, leaning in with a smirk. He allowed Bucky to pull him down to his level and press a warm, wet kiss to his mouth. He felt Bucky’s tongue brush teasingly over his front teeth, just enough to tease him, get him excited, and then leave him hanging. It was a favorite tactic of Bucky’s.

Steve broke the kiss for a moment, still holding Bucky close, lips still touching. “We could open our own place.” He murmured, feeling his lashes brush softly against Bucky’s cheekbones. “No one could kick us out, we could serve to whoever we wanted…”

"You’d trust me around that much alcohol?" The dark haired man asked, the words coming out stilted as he murmured the words between kisses. Steve laughed softly, pulling back, Bucky’s face still cupped in his hands. 

"You’ll be too busy tending the bar to drink."

"And what’ll you be doing huh Stevie?" Bucky prompted, trying not to admit just how much he was liking this idea. 

"Cleaning, waiting table, playing the piano." Steve responded, tipping his head to the side, his eyes suddenly gleaming with suppressed excitement. "What’d’ya say Buck? Let’s get outta here, get off the docks, start something good for ourselves." He prompted, snatching Bucky’s hands tightly in his. He gave Bucky’s long, cold fingers a squeeze in his hot hands. He could feel his excitement coursing through his veins, bubbling over as a wide grin spread across his face. 

Bucky freed his hands from Steve’s shoving his beaming face away. “You and your stupid grin,” He teased, the words becoming moot as an identical grin pulled at his own features. 

"That a yes?" Steve prompted, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his head tipping to the side as he rocked back on his heels. Bucky studied his companion’s posture with a barely suppressed smirk. He looked so bright, so hopeful. In the gloomy, watery light of the dreary afternoon, Steve’s expression was brighter than the sun. The skin surrounding his baby-blue eyes crinkled in early laugh-lines, and his soft, pink lips were pinched into a line to keep the grin from spreading again.  

How could he resist? He hadn’t been able too the day they met in that small navy bar, or when they’d danced together on the balcony of the dance hall in the quiet, intimate moonlight. He certainly hadn’t been able to resist in the shabby hotel room where they’d spent their first night together, and now, after so many months, he found himself unable to resist again. 

Bucky dropped his chin, shaking his head with a smirk. “Alright,” He said in a teasingly defeated tone. He looked up to meet Steve’s gaze, shoving him shoulder roughly. “You win. How are we gonna do this?”

Steve allowed his lips to pull back into a grin as he accepted the teasing shove. “Saw a nice place on the corner that’s up for sale,” He offered, gesturing vaguely off into the rain. “Wanna take a look?”

Bucky reached out, snatching Steve’s hand in his own. “Seaman Rogers, It would be my pleasure.”


	8. Chapter 8

"Well," Bucky murmured with a resigned sigh, "I can see why they wanted to get rid of it…"

The ‘little place on the corner’ that had sounded so pictureque when described to him between kisses in rain was failing to agree with what Bucky was seeing in front of him. True, it was a decent location, with lots of space and big windows, but those were about its only attributes. The windows were almost all broken. Jagged, gapping holes in the glass were covered only by flimsy sheets of tattered plastic that snapped against the building with every wet gust of wind. Cobwebs, thick as curtains, hung about the ceiling, draping long tails of dusty silk from the rafters that caught on the hair and clothing of anyone brave enough to set foot inside.

Dust lay, an inch thick, on every surface, and bits of broken glass that no one had bothered to sweep up crunched underfoot. The warped, gray floorboards had been yanked up in huge patches, leaving treacherous holes in the flooring that seemed to invite a broken ankle. A few odd tables and one or two weathered, mismatched chairs had been tossed unceremoniously in a corner beside the dismal remains of a chandelier.

Steve ran his tongue over his lips, a little frown tugging at his brow. “It’s not so bad.” He murmured, his cautiously cheerful voice sounding small and hollow in the empty room. The blond haired man reached out running his fingers softly over the nearest wall. The paint, once a deep wine-red, had faded to a grayish-brown; chipped and peeling, with dirt and dust finding purchase in every crevices it provided. “At least it’ll be cheep.” He offered, the words sounding overly optimistic even to his own ears. Bucky’s snort of disbelief confirmed that he thought so too.

"I dunno Steve…" Bucky murmured reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know that we can pull this off…"

Steve pursed his lips thoughtfully. He understood where Bucky was coming from. Starting a business like this was risky, there was a good chance that it would fall flat and all the money invested in it would be lost. They would end up penniless, and most likely working back on the docks, or even somewhere less desirable; Steve really didn’t want to consider that option. But if it worked…if it worked then they’d never have to go back to the docks, Steve would never have to worry about Bucky hurting himself because he’d bitten off more than he could chew, they could work together, have something good all to themselves…it had to work, they would make it work.

Steve considered Bucky’s statement before taking a turn around the room. The floorboard creaked dangerously underfoot, cobwebs clung to his cloths and dust kicked up from the floor in his wake. The blond haired man stepped lightly over a ragged hole in the floor, absently kicking a chuck of glass down into it.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line, his head tipping to the side. “Take a look Buck,” He suggested absently. “See anything we can’t handle?”

A disbelieving smile pulled at the corners of Bucky’s mouth and he shook his head. He had opened his mouth to speak, but Steve wasn’t finished. 

"Look." Steve pressed, hopping lightly over another hole and skidding to a stop in front of him. He gripped Bucky’s shoulders, turning him to look deeper into the building. "So it needs new floorboards," he scoffed, shrugging dismissively. "So it needs new windows and a new paint job, no biggy." He grinned over at Bucky, the spark of excitement in his eyes refusing to die out. "You and I are good enough with out hands, we could do it ourself. We wouldn’t even need to hire help." 

"Yeah but Steve," Bucky scoffed, grabbing his hands and pulling them from his shoulders, still holding them clasped in front of him. " _Look_ at this place!” He insisted, his voice carrying a vastly different tone than his blond haired companion. “It’s….Steve, I don’t know if this place is even worth fixing! There’s nothing here!”

Steve hesitated a moment, considering Bucky’s point. He was right, there  _wasn’t_ much there. But Steve didn’t think that it wasn’t worth fixing. If there was one thing that Steve couldn’t abide by, it was letting something that still had worth go to waste because no one had put effort into fixing it. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like if he hadn’t been determined to fix things between himself and Bucky. There was still good there, someone had to fight for it.

The blond haired man drew in a deep breath, squeezing Bucky’s fingers reassuringly. “If you _really_ don’t want to…we don’t have to…But I’m willing to bet that we can do this. I think we can make something good out of this place.” Bucky stared up at Steve, seeing the optimism in his eyes. Steve wanted this, he wanted this badly, and Bucky would be damned if, after everything Steve had done for him, he wasn’t willing to take a risk with him. 

The man’s hooded eyelids lowered, that sleepy smirk pulling at his lips. “You win Steve.” He said, meeting his gaze now, a look of poorly concealed affection in his eyes. “Where do we start?”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Money was tight. The initial cost of buying the deed for the building was bad enough, but acquiring quality material was also going to be more expensive than they bargained for. Bills, rent, and food costs contributed to their tight budget. For as much as Steve wanted to get Bucky out of the miserable working environment of the docks, it was necessary that they continue to work. Without the money that came from the tedious, dangerous dock work, their endeavor would draw to a grinding halt, and they would find themselves, again, trapped into a dead-end job. 

But necessity is the mother of invention, and their financial struggles led Steve and Bucky to be a little more creative in their methods. After work hours, Bucky had taken to hustling pool at the local bars. He was good, and strong enough to ensure that his debtors payed up at the end of the night. Steve on the other hand, took up a craft that he hadn’t let himself enjoy for years. Since before he had joined the navy, Steve’s sketchbook and charcoals had been left to gather dust on a shelf in his apartment. Now, he spent every hour he could, perched on a stool at a street corner, sketching scenery and faces and selling the finished products to passers-by. It wasn’t a consistent, or steady income, but the few extra dollars still helped. 

Finally, the two men were able to begin work on the bar, but there was more to be done in the small corner building than either Steve or Bucky could have ever imagined. Upon opening up a panel in the wall to check on the state of the electrical wiring, they found that, not only was the wiring completely unsalvageable, but an ugly black mold had grown on the inside of the walls. Everything had to be stripped out. The paneling was removed, along with the insulation. Supports had to be replaced, ceiling beams had to be propped up, and nests of termites had to be exterminated. And that was just the walls. The memory of dead, disgusting, and/or disturbing things found under the floorboards of the building would not be one that the two men would look back on fondly. Needless to say, the floorboards had to be pulled up as well. 

Many times, the only few hours that Steve and Bucky had to spare were in the early morning before work, or late at night after Bucky had finished hustling pool. Long nights were spent trying to hold open bleary eyes long enough to yank up just a few more floorboards. Gray misty mornings were spent hauling rubble and scrap away with sleep-weary arms.

But gradually, the dust and debris was cleared away. New paneling replaced the mold covered walls, and gleaming, honey-brown floorboards shone where dull gray strips had once lain. The three, cracked and broken windows had been replaced, and Steve had spent hours painstakingly etching designs and hand-lettering around the edges. A heavy, dark wood door hung in the place of the crooked, creaking door that had so dismally marked the entrance of the desolate building.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The actinic smell of paint hung heavy in the air despite the wide open windows that let in the city air from the street. Protective plastic crinkled underfoot, and warm sunlight drifted through onto the covered floor.

Steve and Bucky stood in the corner of the building, staring at their work. Today had been the finishing touch. Steve had chosen a deep burgundy paint for the walls, with a cream colored trim running up the corners to the off-white ceiling. It had been impossible to restore the old chandelier that had been discarded in the corner when they’d first arrived, but Bucky was partial to the light fitting they had now. Four bowl shaped fixtures hung from the ceiling on brass chains; the warm, gold coloring of the glass tinting the light that pooled down on the room. 

Although the floor was still covered in yard upon yard of protective plastic, the warm, smooth wood could still be seen, gleaming dully up through the foggy plastic. Bucky had spent hours constructing a long, sturdy bar out of an attractive dark wood. Behind it, shelves of a similar type rose from floor to ceiling, ready to host their wares. Tables and chairs had been ordered, all identical, all made to match the atmosphere of the building. Steve had even managed to acquire a modest piano, which sat in the corner of the room, silent, but welcoming.  

Steve exhaled slowly, staring around that the finished product that they’d worked so hard to achieve. It had been so much harder than he could have ever imagined, but they were here now, and it was finished. Beside him, Steve heard Bucky give a low whistle. 

"So that’s that…" He murmured under his breath, and Steve responded with a soft laugh, nodding his head in agreement. They had been working to restore the building for months, they’d woken up early and gone to bed late to but hours in to this project. Spare time had been used in scrounging up money for it, and now it was just a few steps away from completion. What could you really say?

"That’s that…" Steve turned to look at the dark haired man standing beside him, a victorious smirk pulling at his lips. "How’s your bartender certification going?" He asked, absently twining their fingers together. Bucky gave him a sidelong glance, his thumb absently stroking against Steve’s. 

"Got the official papers in the mail yesterday." He replied, tipping his head to the side with a little smirk.

Steve’s expression phased into a grin, and he blinked in surprise as Bucky freed his hand from his and snaked it around his waist. Since Bucky had allowed himself to trust Steve again he’d been willing to accept Steve’s gestures of affection, but seldom initiated them himself. Now, all he wanted was to hold Steve close to him, pepper him with kisses and expressions of affections, just like he had when they had first met. He _wanted_ to go back to brushing his finger’s through Steve’s hair, kissing his knuckles or his wrists, stop him just to nuzzle against his jawline. The more Bucky healed, the more he felt like himself, and the more natural the little gestures of love became. 

The dark haired man’s trademarked smirk lingered on his soft, pink lips as he drew Steve’s hips against his own. His tongue slide out, licking his lips in a lazy, teasing gesture. “Look at this place Stevie,” He said, his voice low and sleepy. “Our own place? Our own little hole-in-the-wall bar? We’re practically domestic.” Bucky purred, bitting playfully at Steve’s lower lip. 

His companion grinned, pulling his lips momentarily out of reach, before tipping his head down again and pressing them softly against Bucky’s. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor this kiss despite the pounding in his chest. There was something he needed to ask Bucky. He broke the kiss after a long moment, lingering for a few seconds longer, enjoying the feeling of Bucky’s warm breath on his lips. 

"Only _practically_ domestic,” Steve reminded him with a smile, lacing his fingers together against the small of Bucky’s back. “If we were going to go full nine-yards domestic I’d have to ask you to move in with me.” 

Bucky laughed softly, his nose brushing against Steve’s as he pressed their foreheads together. “Wouldn’t that be something…” He murmured, pressing another gentle kiss to Steve’s lips.

"I mean it." Steve said casually, pulling back and looking Bucky dead in the eye, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "Move in with me." He said, smiling openly.

Bucky pulled back, suddenly blinking as he processed Steve’s request. “What? You’re serious?” He prompted, no longer teasing. He looked more….stunned. Possibly confused. 

Steve nodded openly, trying to keep the interaction casual. It didn’t need to be anything more than that. He didn’t need to confess his feeling to Bucky, he already _knew_ how he felt. The simple fact was that Steve loved him, and he wanted to be with him, regardless of anything else. ”Sure,” He said, tipping his head slightly to the side, shifting his hands to rest them on Bucky’s lower back. Bucky still looked stunned, gaping wide-eyed at him, like he still couldn’t tell weather or not Steve was yanking his chain. “I’ll even make breakfast in the morning.” He offered, a lightly teasing grin tugging at his lips.

Slowly, the confusion on Bucky’s face gave way to realization. Steve wasn’t joking. He was quite serious, and he wanted Bucky to move in with him.

"Oh." Bucky said simply, staring at him. Steve’s easy smile grew a bit more nervous, and he let his hands slid from Bucky’s back.

"I know anything that isn’t sarcasm isn’t your strongest point Buck, but you’ve gotta give me more than an ‘oh’" He said, his nervousness beginning to show through his voice. 

Bucky paused a moment, his expression going closed as he let his hands slid away from Steve’s waist. He stepped back a pace, his eyes narrowing skeptically, as he seemed to study him. Steve seldom got so nervous that he felt sick, but now was definitely one of those rare times. Everything in him wanted to start babbling, trying to explain himself, convince him, coax words out of him,  _something_ ; but he bit it all back.

The soles of Bucky’s worn shoes thumped softly against the floor, plastic crinkling underfoot and he backed away from him. He was squinting, his gorgeous lips pressed into a thin line. He looked…wary….and Steve’s stomach dropped. After all this, some part of Bucky must still doubt that Steve loved him.

The silence grew tense, and heavy between them as Bucky paced around behind him, Steve forcing himself not to turn. And then, like a breath of fresh air, Steve felt Bucky’s hands wrap around his waist, his sharp chin tucking against his shoulder. 

"I’m sorry, that was mean," He apologized, his breath hot against Steve’s neck. "Of course I want to move in with you." Bucky murmured, and Steve felt the brunet’s smiling lips press against the side of his neck. 

He wheeled around, shoving Bucky’s hands off with a playfully annoyed scowl. “You’re a jerk.” He accused, trying not to smile. 

A mischievous glint lit Bucky’s hooded blue eye, and he allowed Steve to shove him away, but he couldn’t let that go on for _too_ long. He stepped forward again, drawing Steve against him once more, ignoring his attempts to push away. Bucky could see the smile lingering just behind the taller man’s lips, he didn’t want to get away _that_ badly. “Yeah,” He agreed, nodding his head absently. “I’m a jerk. I don’t hear you retracting your offer though.” Bucky teased, and Steve broke, allowing a grin to spread across his features. 

"Guess not," Steve smirked, his fingers tangling through Bucky’s hair. In that moment, things weren’t perfect, there were bill that needed to be payed, there was work to be done and more hardships ahead than he’d like to imagine. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t perfect, but Steve had everything he needed.


	9. Chapter 9

Success was far from immediate. Quite the opposite in fact. After the grand opening, wherein four or five people had dribbled in, had a drink and left, weeks passed with no business to speak of. Often times, Steve and Bucky’s evenings were spent alone together at the bar, tending to the one or two customers who may drift in over the course of the hours. It was discouraging, and expensive. Not matter how few costumers they had, heating bills, electric bills, and rent still had to be payed. The couple took to sleeping close together in Steve’s narrow bed, wrapped up in blankets and each others arms to avoid turning on the heat in their own apartment. 

About a month after the bar was opened, Steve fell ill. Another long, rainy day working at the docks had hit him hard. The management, those who managed the affairs surrounding Steve and Bucky’s place of employment, were brutal. When it became obvious that Steve wouldn’t be back in to work by the end of the week, he was laid off, leaving Bucky as their sole financial support. 

Steve hated not being able to help. Day after day at the docks, Bucky worked himself ragged to make enough money to keep the bar open. At night, he only had as long to rest as it took him to walk to the bar. Granted, he had few enough costumers to tend to, but he’d still rather be home tending it Steve. With money as tight as it was, buying good medicine for him was nearly impossible. Although Steve insisted that he’d get better just fine on his own, the guilt still ate Bucky alive. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A chill seeped up through the floorboards of Steve and Bucky’s shared apartment, and the blond haired man curled in on himself. He wrapped the blankets tighter around himself, missing the warmth of his lover’s body beside him. It was almost midnight, and Bucky would be home soon. 

In the still, cold darkness, Steve heard the barely perceptible click of the front door closing. Bucky was getting better at entering unnoticed. It upset Bucky to no end to come home in the middle of the night and find Steve awake. He always knew what Bucky would say, ‘No, don’t get up,’ ‘You’re sick, you need rest,’ ‘go back to sleep Steve,’ But Steve didn’t care. Bucky left earlier and earlier every morning now. He worked long hours at the docks, only to got straight to the bar, keeping it open until eleven. The middle of the night had come to be the only time that Steve could see him.

The door to their bedroom opened silently, and Steve lay still as he heard Bucky moving with carefully measured steps over to the bedside.  He heard him pause, stepping over the creaking board by the nightstand; he heard him breath a quiet sigh of relief at the sight of him, comfortable, and apparently asleep. It was with great care that Bucky eased himself onto the mattress beside him, paying close heed not to let it shift or creak too much. Steve almost felt bad, Bucky was going to all this trouble to insure that he didn’t wake. It almost seemed kinder to pretend to still be asleep. But Steve hadn’t spoken to Bucky since midnight the night before, hadn’t checked on him, hand’t been able to make sure that Bucky hadn’t hurt himself on the docks.

Steve rolled over, feeling his companion stiffen. “Hey,” He murmured, shifting completely so that his hot forehead was touching Bucky’s.

The dark haired man grimaced. “Sorry Stevie, go back to sleep.” He whispered, absently brushing calloused fingers over his cheek in the darkness.

Steve managed a feverish smile, shrugging his shoulder. “No biggy,  I was already awake.”

"Still. You need to go back to sleep. Now." Bucky ordered, a note of concern in his voice. He hated that he couldn’t be here to take care of Steve, that he was sick, and weak, and had no one to look after him. Bucky reached out, softly caressing Steve’s forehead. A frown pulled at his brow. "You’re warm…" He murmured quietly. "Did your fever spike again earlier?"

Steve nodded absently, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah, but its nothing to worry about Buck.” He said dismissively. “It’ll go away on it o-” Steve words were cut off abruptly by a deep, wet cough that rattled his chest, making his throat ache. He curled in tighter, another ragged cough tearing from his throat.

"Hey," Bucky said, grabbing Steve’s shoulder, gripping it tight as the blond’s body was wracked with a fit of coughing. With his free hand, Bucky reached over Steve’s shaking shoulder, taking the glass of water from the nightstand. "Come on, sit up…" Bucky encouraged, trying not to let his nervousness and guilt show through his voice, it would only make Steve feel worse.

Steve pushed his weary, aching body into a sitting position, gratefully taking the glass from Bucky’s bone-tired hands. It took him a few tried to get a good drink as deep, wet coughs continued to catch in his throat, causing him to splutter, and swallow wrong. Of course, this only made it worse. Finally, the coughing subsided as Steve drained the last of the water in the glass, depositing it once more on the nightstand.

"Thanks," he rasped, sinking down again against his pillows. "I’ll be fine now."

Bucky pursed his lips, unresponsive, his brow drawn into a deep frown. Steve needed medicine, and the guilt of being unable to provide that for him was eating Bucky alive. He had tried every possible situation in his mind, but there was no other way to get more income. He was already working himself to death at the docks, not to mention keeping the bar open until late. The money from the docks had to go towards food, and keeping the bar operational. Steve would never let him cut corners with that in order to scrape together a little extra money for medicine.

Bucky was shaken from his guilty thoughts by Steve’s prying voice. “So,” he pressed, “how was the bar tonight?”

Bucky licked his lips, considering the question. “Actually,” his started, his tone picking up a little as he dared to let a hint of optimism enter his voice. “it was pretty busy tonight. Not the usual.”

Steve smirked tiredly. “Wish I could’a been there to lend you a hand.” He murmured, laying his head down on the pillow and settling in, curling against Bucky’s chest.

A sad little smile tugged at the brunet’s lips as he combed his fingers through his feverish lover’s hair. “Yeah, I wish you could’a been there too Stevie, but you be able to help again soon enough.” He said softly, eager to appease his infirm boyfriend so that he would finally allow himself to sleep.

Steve nodded against his chest, his lips feeling parched and dry already. “Damn right I will…” He rasped sleepily, “I’ll…have his kick in no time…just hang in there…”

A knot formed in Bucky’s throat as Steve spoke, and he drew the other man closer against himself. The sweat on Steve’s feverish body had cooled, going clamy. A shiver ran through the blond’s body. Bucky was worried, really worried. Steve might get better on his own, it might pass in time and leave Steve fit as a fiddle again…but what if it didn’t? What if Steve needed medicine to heal, and Bucky couldn’t provide it? Whatever happen next would be on his hands, and Bucky didn’t think he could live with that.

The dark haired man wrapped his arms tightly around Steve’s shivering body, trying his best to impart every bit of warmth he could to him. Steve was breathing evenly now that he’d finally allowed himself to rest, but Bucky could hear the fluid rattling in his lungs. He could feel the phases of burning heat and freezing chill that plegued him. But there was nothing he could do, only work himself harder, push himself longer, and pray that his failing didn’t cost him the man he loved.


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky would kill him if he knew he was outside. It chilly, but dry, and Steve had bundled himself up against the nippy wind and settled himself outside with his sketch pad and charcoal. For the past few days now, while Bucky was working at the docks, Steve had taken to sketching outside again, and trying to sell his work to passersby. A few coins, maybe a dollar was all he usually got on any given day, but it was better that way. It was a little extra money for the box, but not enough that Bucky would notice, or question. One thing was for sure, Bucky wanted him inside, resting, and recovering, and he would be scarlet with frustration if he ever saw Steve huddled against the curb, charcoal held in numbing fingers, trying to make a little more money for the two of them.

A small, affectionate smile tugged at Steve’s lips. He loved Bucky, but he was working himself too hard, and Bucky wasn’t going to his guilt-fueled frustration scare him out of helping. Besides, He hadn’t been feverish today and, despite the deep, wet coughs that shook his weakened frame, he took it as a good thing. 

Around five o’clock, Steve pushed himself up off of the sidewalk, the grit of the pavement digging into his palms. He stooped to snatch his handful of charcoal pencils from the ground, tucking them in his back pocket. His fingers were freezing, and numb, his cheeks chapped and reddened from the wind, but he didn’t care. He had three dollars in his pocket, three dollars that could go towards keeping the bar open, or buying better food; three dollars that could go towards savings so that Bucky wouldn’t have to work one more day on the docks.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Steve had been home for all of a half hour before he knew that the cabin fever would drive him insane. He knew he was still sick, his coughing and dizzy spells would be problematic, but there had been no fever today, and Steve was desperate to get out of the cramped, chilly apartment. A wry smile pulled across Steve’s features as a somewhat unconventional thought occurred to him. He could go to the bar, have it open by five forty-five and meet Bucky by six. God he’d be furious. The grin widened on his face. Weather Bucky would be mad at him for leaving the house or not was a trivial matter at most. Once he was there, Bucky couldn’t  _make_  him go home. He could spend the whole evening with him. They could tend the bar together as they’d always planned, and then walk home and be able to curl up against one another under the cold sheets. Bucky would be frosted, and probably chew him out for not taking care of himself, but Steve didn’t care. A few moments of conversation before sleep was not enough. Steve had missed him too much to care. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The inside of the bar, warm, and light, was a welcomed change from the cool of the falling darkness. Steve smirked to himself. He’d beaten Bucky there, although probably only by a few minutes. Bucky always had the bar open by six. The blond haired man picked up a tall glass from the shelf behind the bar, holding it up and absently turning it in the yellow light. He pursed his lips, lifting a linen cloth from the dark-wood surface and wiping at a foggy spot on the glass. The rest of the glasses were close behind, being rinsed out, dried, and polished so they would be ready by the time their customers arrived. 

The bell above the door jingled, and Steve managed to suppress a smile, knowing he was about to get the lecture of a life-time.  It was probably bad that he was enjoying this as much as he was. “It’s six-ten, you’re late,” He teased, turning around to face the door. 

It wasn’t Bucky. A man had taken a seat at the bar, looking at Steve now with a quizzical raise of his bushy white brow. Steve blinked, taken aback. 

"Oh, Sorry," He started, shaking his head to clear it. "I mistook you for my…friend…" Steve finished lamely. As much as he wished he could be open about he and Bucky’s relationship, business was bad enough as it was, and knowing that the bar was owned by a same-sex couple would most likely loose them most, if not all of their costumers. Steve exhaled deeply, wincing as he heard the fluid rattling in his own lungs. "What can I get you?"

Steve attended to the man’s order, now vaguely concerned. Bucky should have been here by now. If he’d had any intention of opening the bar tonight, which he’d assured Steve he had, he would have been here by six at the latest. It was almost six thirty now. But Steve didn’t have a lot of time to wonder about Bucky’s whereabouts, as the bar began to fill up. Bucky had been right, business was picking up, although it was only just enough to compensate for the loss of Steve’s income from the docks. Even if business continued at this pace, it would be a while before they could afford luxuries again, even luxuries that Bucky considered necessities.

_'Like medicine,_ ' Steve though bitterly, trying to muffle a cough in his elbow. The effort sent a stab of pain up his spin, jabbing like a knife into the back of his head. After well over two week of consistent coughing, it had begun to make his body ache. Steve hated that he hadn't been able to simply get well on his own. He didn't need Bucky to worry, and he didn't need money to be taken away from more important things to buy things like medicine for him. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Steve underestimated the strain that working the bar would have on his weakened body. By ten o’clock everything hurt, his throat was raw from try to suppress his cough, and exhaustion drug at his body. As soon as the last customer had left the bar, Steve closed the building down, despite it only being ten thirty. He couldn’t handle another hour and a half. So Steve swept hastily, wiped down the bar, and stumbling out the door, dragging his weary body back home. All the way back, one question hung in his mind.  _'Where's Bucky?'_

_.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-._

It was eleven o’clock, and the only thing that kept Bucky moving was the thought of how happy Steve would be to see him home a full hour early. He knew Steve was restless, and he knew he was bored, but better restless and bored than getting worse. 

An exhausted smile tugged at Bucky’s lips as he drug himself up the steps to their apartment, despite the pain that plagued his body. He could just imagine him, sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea and complaining to the thin air that he was  _fine,_  that he should be out there helping, running the bar, something! Bucky could imagine him nodding off in the middle of the afternoon when the fatigue of his illness got to be too much for him. In all of these images, Steve was cranky, yes, but he was also safe, and warm, and resting, which of course, was all that mattered to Bucky. 

The man’s bone weary fingers tightened on the paper bag at his side, and he felt of flutter of excitement in his chest. He had paid dearly for the glass bottle of medicine that was tucked inside the brown paper bag, but Steve didn’t have to know that. The point was, he  _had_  it now! The medicine would help Steve get better, no matter  _how_  he’d gotten it. 

Despite his desire to see Steve and get to spend a whole hour more with him than he was usually able to, Bucky was still careful in opening the door. If Steve was already asleep, despite everything, Bucky would take great care not to wake him. As the dark haired man ghosted through their apartment, his triumph at acquiring the medicine began to hideously morph into a suffocating guilt. It was misplace, he told himself, it was justified…it was fine…it was all for Steve…

By the time he reached the door to the bedroom, Bucky felt like he just might throw up. His hand was clutched in a clammy death-grip on the bag, and he fought down a wave of guilt-induced nausea.  _All for Steve…_ He reminded himself, silently turning the handle…. _It’s all for Steve…_

Light spilled from inside the bedroom as Bucky pulled the crack in the door open wider. The weak, watery glow of the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the contours of his ragged face. Bucky tried to swallow back the lump of guilt that was growing inside him, threatening to force it’s way out his mouth in the form of sickness, or a confession. Still, despite all that, a weary smile tugged at his lips. So Steve was still awake after all. Swallowing hard, Bucky adopted his best air of casualness, allowing himself to celebrate his small victory, and strolled into the room.

"Hey Stevie, what are you still doing up?" Bucky asked his heart thumping against his ribs. "Thought you would’a been asleep by now."

Steve turned as Bucky entered the room, rising abruptly to his feet. “Bucky.” He said shortly, his gaze searching. “Where were you? I was worried sick!” Steve crossed the creaking floor in two long strides, grabbing Bucky’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the other man’s already tender skin.

Bucky winced slightly, before quickly masking the expression, a rough laugh escaping his throat. “Hey, I’m actually early.” He insisted, peeling Steve’s hands from his shoulders. “Had to finish up at the bar, remember?” Bucky prompted, tapping Steve’s forehead with a lazy smirk.

Steve pulled back, his look of concern laced with suspicion. “You didn’t open the bar tonight.”

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, the words hitting him like a punch to the chest. His throat had gone suddenly dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Bucky’s eyes dropped guiltily for a moment, before his guilt spurned him into action, pressing him to further cover up his lie.

“‘Course I did Stevie,” He scoffed, opting for the informal again. “I al-“

"No," Steve insisted, cutting him off as he stepped forward again, his eyes cold. "Don’t lie to me Buck. You didn’t open the bar tonight. _I_  did.”

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he started at him. Heat washed up his spine, his cheek flushing. It was partially with the frustration that Steve hadn’t stayed home and taken care of himself, partially that his lie had been found out. “You  _what_?” Bucky demanded, his anger and guilt mixing seamlessly with concern. “Steve you’re supposed to be resting, dammit! You can’t just go off and work half the night when you’re supposed to be focusing on getting better! You’re supposed to be staying home!”

"And you’re supposed to be opening the bar at night." Steve countered, hurt that Bucky was continuing to lie to him. He’d been worried at first, afraid something had happened to him at the docks; now that worry was fading to anger.  "What have you been doing?" Steve demanded.

The guilt was almost more than Bucky could stand, but he just had to manage it for a little while longer. “I  _have_  been opening the bar,” Bucky said truthfully. He tried to keep his voice agreeable, and placating as he took Steve’s arm, guiding him down onto the edge of the bed. “Just not tonight. I got you somethin’ see?” He prompted gently, pressing the paper bag into Steve’s hands. It felt all too much like a peace offering.

Steve’s brow drew into a frown as he studied the wrinkled paper bag that rested in his palms. His gaze darted up to Bucky’s encouraging expression, before dropping back down to the parcel. There was a bottle of some kind inside it, that much was obvious. It felt smooth, and cool, even through it’s paper container. The parchment crinkled under Steve’s fingers as he pulled it back, revealing the bottle of medicine resting in the bottom of the bag. Steve could tell from first glance that it was the good kind…the expensive kind…the kind they really couldn’t afford. For a moment, Steve’s suspicion and anger ebbed. Bucky must have pulled a lot of strings to get this for him…

He looked up again, still frowning, but more confused now than anything. “Buck…I told you not to…” He said quietly, momentarily distracted by the look on his lover’s face. He looked weary, and battered. His face was drawn with exhaustion and his eyes reflected a kind of pain that Steve couldn’t place. But still, he was smiling. The warm, earnest smile that lingered on Bucky’s soft rosy lips conveyed all the affection and dedication in the world. His expression of one of the purest kind of selfless love that Steve had ever seen. He looked broken, and in pain, but it didn’t seemed to matter, because he’d gotten what Steve needed.

Steve slowly lowered the bottle, Bucky’s expression hitting home, resounding in his soul in such a way that he knew that Bucky had done something terrible. “How did you get this?” Steve asked breathlessly, the color having drained from his already pale cheeks. 

Bucky’s warm hands closed over his own, the warmth of his smile not reaching the pain in his eyes. “Just have some okay?” He pressed, knowing that the medicine would not only help the awful cough that wracked his lover’s body, but would sooth him to sleep in only a few minutes. Steve would sleep, and Bucky wouldn’t have to see the look on his face if he found out the truth about what he asked him.

Steve slid one hand free of Bucky’s, setting the medicine aside with a muted  _clunk_. “Where did you get it Bucky.” He demanded again, his hand curling around Bucky’s wrist. His voice was soft, the tone a mixture of anger, and concern…and fear…

The other man gave a soft laugh, his nervousness and guilt peaking as Steve refused to back down from his question. “Geez, relax Stevie, it’s just a bottle of medicine.” He protested. Steve’s piercing gaze sent a prickle down his spine, and he looked away, craning his head to look aimlessly behind him. There was nothing there, but it distracted him from having to look Steve in the eye.

As Bucky turned, his collar pulled slightly, exposing the length of his throat. Steve’s searching gaze caught suddenly on a patch of discoloration right at the base of Bucky’s neck. His free hand shot out, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s shirt and pulling it aside. Steve’s insides turned to ice, his thoughts coming to a crashing halt. A dark bruise bloomed at the base of Bucky’s throat. It was flushed a purplish red, inflamed, and rimmed with faint teeth marks.

Guilt washed over Bucky’s expression as he sharply pushed Steve’s hand away, tugging his collar back into place. He froze there, covering the mark that he knew all to well Steve had seen. He knew now, but Bucky was to ashamed to fully come out of hiding. The silence stretched between them, heavy, and suffocating. Bucky couldn’t meet his lover’s eye, couldn’t bear to see what was written there. Betrayal? Disappointment? Anger? It wouldn’t surprise him.

The dark haired man flinched as he felt Steve’s hand slowly curled around his own again, pulling it away from his throat, exposing his guilty secret once more. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes squeezed closed. What ever would happen now would happen, and if Steve was angry, if he was going to take it out on him in whatever form, Bucky felt sure he deserved it. A soft, choked off whimper escaped Bucky’s lips as he felt Steve’s fingertip softly trace the brand of betrayal on his throat. His hand slid under his collar, pulling it away further, reveling multiple other marks that the cloth had concealed.

"God Bucky…" Steve managed, his voice coming out as a cracked whisper as he stared at the bruises that had been sucked onto his delicate skin. "Wh-Why’dyou…" His voice broke, and he reached up, grabbing Bucky’s jaw gently, pulling his face even with his own. "What did you do?" Steve pressed. But Steve already knew  _what_ , the question he couldn’t quite manage, was  _why_?

Bucky slowly opened his eyes, feeling Steve’s fingertips press into his skin, holding their gazes even. “You’re sick…” He rasped helplessly, the pain cut into Steve’s expression almost more that he could stand to see. “…You needed it…I  _had_  to…”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat, and he tried to swallow back the hard knot that was rising from the pit of his stomach. More emotions that he could account for fought for prominence in Steve’s mind, but one won out more that all the others: Guilt. This was his fault. He’d obstinately refused to let Bucky take any money out of the profits from the bar or the docks in order to pay for the medicine, and now he’d turned to this…And it was his fault….

Steve blinked rapidly, trying to clear his blurry vision, trying to speak, trying to move, anything! But he just sat there, holding Bucky’s face close to his, his stomach in knots.

"Say something." Bucky rasped, a sickening fear growing in his stomach; the fear that their delicately patched relationship would crumble, only this time he would be at fault, and he would have to live with Steve hating him…Bucky watched as Steve’s lips opened soundlessly, before he locked his jaw, dropping his eyes away again with a shake of his head. He _had_  to know. He  _had_ to know that it had all been for him…How could he want anyone else?

"Steve please…" Bucky begged, his voice cracking. "Please, I had to, I-I didn’t have any other choice, you nee- You needed it…I had to- I-" The brunet’s voice broke, betraying the complete, consuming misery that had been tearing at him for hours now.

Steve’s hand came up, tightening through Bucky’s hair and abruptly drawing him in, clutching the other man to his chest. Bucky startled at the sudden embrace, an almost fearful yelp escaping him. He found himself wrapped tightly in Steve’s arms, the man’s fingers digging into his tender skin, his head tucked into the crook of Bucky’s bruised neck. Bucky’s eyes were wide with shock, as he reached up, his fingers curling tightly into the material of Steve’s shirt. And suddenly he was clinging to him, sobbing as everything he’d pent up inside him escaped. How could Steve hold him like this? How could he hug him close to himself when Bucky, however honorable his intentions, had gone behind his back, lied to him, and sold out his body like a commodity?

Huge, wracking sobs tore from Bucky’s throat as Steve held him, murmuring soft, barely coherent words of comfort in his ear. His long, sender fingers combed through Bucky’s hair, tugging gently at any knots until they came undone. His touch was so different from what Bucky had endured just hours before. The men he had sold himself out to had be rough, forceful and greedy. They’d gripped fistfuls of Bucky’s hair, yanking and twisting as they left their painful marks on his body. He’d been pushed, shoved, forced down on his knees on coarse wooden floors, or pinned painfully to scratchy mattresses.

Steve’s touch was soft, and gentle, stroking his hair and cheeks and holding him close. It was nothing alike. As Steve tipped Bucky’s face up, pressing a pained kiss to his bruised and swollen lips, it felt nothing like the aggressive, open-mouthed kisses that had been forced on him earlier. Steve’s lips tasted of sorrow, and guilt, feelings that Bucky felt should belong exclusively to him right now. Steve shouldn’t feel guilty. The fault was his. The betrayal was his. So why?

The blond haired man pulled back slowly, his expression twisted with grief as he cupped Bucky’s jaw in his hands. “Bucky…” He breathed, his voice coming out ragged, and choked. “I’m sorry…”

Bucky recoiled, a look of horror written on his features. “No. Steve, this- this isn’t you’re fault, it’s mine. I went behind your back, I cheated on you, I hurt you, you should-” He started, his voice breaking off abruptly, flinching as Steve reached forward to cup his face again, drawing him close once more.

"You did this for me…" Steve rasped thickly. "Because of me."

Bucky stared at him, meeting his blue eyes, so heavy with pain. He parted his dry lips, barely managing to speak. “I just didn’t want to loose you…Steve...you’re _so_ sick…I had to…”

Silence fell, heavy, and painful over the two lovers, broken only by the sound of Bucky’s ragged breathing. The was so much Steve wanted to say. He wanted to apologize over and over again for making Bucky feel like he had to take such drastic steps to ensure his health. He wanted to hold Bucky, kiss his cheeks and lips and neck; assure him that he was loved. He wanted to demand to know what exactly had happened, so that he could make pay those who hurt the man he loved, and so that he could ease away the pain in his body.

A spasm of coughing suddenly wracked Steve’s body, doubling him over as pain shot through every nerve ending. His lungs ached, his body trembling as he tried to drag air into his weakened lungs. Bucky grabbed Steve’s shoulder’s tightly, sitting him up, stabilizing him as the coughs continued to ravage his system. Finally, they settled, leaving Steve blinking back tears, and trying to catch his breath.

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line, taking the little glass bottle that had cost him so much off the nightstand. “Would you just take the damn medicine?” He choked, barely able to force the words out from his tight throat.

Steve caught a ragged breath, looking up and meeting Bucky’s guilt-stricken gaze. “Don’t get me wrong,” Steve managed, “I’m pissed as hell at you, and you can bet we’re still going to talk about this tomorrow…”

Bucky lowered his eyes away, feeling the knot in his stomached tighten once more.

"But I love you…I just…don’t want you hurt…I don’t want you to  _let_  someone hurt you because of me. I’ll take the medicine, but please,” Steve managed, his voice breaking into a whisper. “Please don’t ever do anything like this again…I love you too much…I couldn’t live with myself if I let you do this for me again…”

 To Steve surprise, and to his own, Bucky managed a tight smile. “Okay..” He rasped, reaching forward and grabbing the side of Steve’s face. “Okay, I promise. Just take the medicine and go to sleep…” He pleaded, prying the bottle from Steve’s fingers and pouring the proper dosage into the cap. “It’s done now…I can’t change it…Just take it…and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

It was with pained reluctance that Steve drained the foul tasting liquid, feeling it coat his throat; thick, and syrupy.  Bucky watched, taking care that he got every last drop of what he had poured him. The dark haired man reached out, gently pressing Steve back, laying him down and sinking slowly down beside him. His eyes, weary, and haunted with guilt, watched over Steve as the man settled in, still holding his eyes open, still trying to make sense of what had happened.

"Go to sleep already…" Bucky insisted, the tone of pure agony in his voice enough to negate any attempts at playfulness. He breathed a sigh, pulling Steve against him, tangling their legs together comfortably. "I’m staying right here…" He murmured, tangling his finger’s through Steve’s hair. "I promise…"


	11. Chapter 11

Waking, Steve realized that it was Sunday; the one day Bucky was allowed to be home with him, the one day Bucky didn’t have to work himself into the ground. It was a rare blessing in their period of hardship. Steve had never been so greatful. Still, despite his gratefulness, Steve had never woken up with such a heartache. 

Without the medicine, Steve never would have been able to sleep. As it was, his first waking thought was that he shouldn’t have let Bucky talk him into taking it. The man he loved most in the world was hurt, scared, emotionally devastated; and yet Steve had allowed himself to be drugged, and pulled under in spite of this. He’d slipped off to sleep and left Bucky to face the nightmare alone. 

As Steve pried his sleep crusted eyelids open, his vision was filled with the image of Bucky’s sleeping face, his head rested on the pillow beside him, eyes closed, face lined with grief. Steve’s throat tightened painfully as he saw the expression on Bucky’s face. Even in sleep, he still looked troubled…no…guilty… The sight of that emotion seemingly branded on his sleeping lover’s face sent a shaft of pain through Steve. Something told him that Bucky wasn’t going to let go of this. Even after Steve forgave him, which, although he was still upset he had, Bucky wouldn’t forgive  _himself_.

Moving a slowly so as not to wake him, Steve gently pulled back the collar of Bucky’s shirt, exposing the bruise that a stranger had sucked onto his skin. Over the course of the night, the mark had begun to fade, though it still stood out like a dark brand on his pale flesh. With gentle fingers, Steve silently unfastened the next two buttons of Bucky’s shirt. Just as he thought he’d seen the extent of the damage, the outline of yet another mark would peek out from beneath the edge of the material. The blond haired man slowly unfixed the buttons all the way down the length of his companion’s torso, carefully shifting the material aside.

In the moment he did, he wished he hadn’t. Steve had gotten a little rough with Bucky before when he was sure he had the other man’s explicit consent, he’d left mark, and he’d left bruises, but nothing like this. Bucky looked more like he’d been beaten than had sex with. His pale, toned body was discolored with bruises. Dark, circular marks had been sucked onto his skin, tracing as far down as his sharp hip bones; disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Purplish bruises in the imprint of large, rough hands stretched across Bucky’s waist, darker at the tips where they’d gripped painfully into his tender skin. 

Steve reached out, his fingers brushing softly over the discolored skin, his throat tightening as he pressed his lips into a thin line. He startled as Bucky’s hand moved unexpectedly to rest over his own, pushing Steve’s fingers away. 

"Don’t touch it Steve." Bucky croaked, his voice raspy. He sounded hoarse, like his throat was sore. Steve would murder whoever had hurt him enough to make him scream.

Steve lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting Bucky’s. He didn’t have words for him right now. He forgave Bucky, he understood, he loved him…more than anything…but that didn’t mean he had the right words to say all that and still have him know that he was thoroughly pissed. Love was a funny thing. It didn’t go away when you were angry.

Steve slid lower on the matress, wordless as he bent his head, pressing a soft kiss to the finger shaped bruises on his lover’s skin. His chapped lips grazed tenderly over the mark, seeming to reclaim it; mark it with love rather than pain. There would be time to let Bucky know he was angry later, right now, Bucky had to know that he was loved.

The dark haired man squirmed slightly, an overwhelming guilt washing over him. “Steve,” he started in a strangled tone, “don’t.” Bucky pleaded, his cheeks flushing pink. Steve shouldn’t even be looking at him right now! He should be so furious, so hurt, that he couldn’t even speak to him. He shouldn’t be kissing him. He shouldn’t be softly brushing his gentle hands over the painful marks that had been left on his body. He should be seeing them with a look of disgust, and betrayal, not soothing the ache away wih soft touch and tender kisses. To wish that Steve would feel that way was a kind of sadistic self-punishment, Bucky knew. In his mind, although it had all been to help, and potentially save Steve’s life, cheating on him was an unforgivable crime, and if Steve wouldn’t punish him for it, Bucky certainly would.

Steve paused, glancing up to gauge the look on his lover’s face. Bucky had had experiences like this before, and after last night, he could well be feeling frightened of intimate contact again. But Steve was willing to bet that that wasn’t the case, at least, not fully. He knew Bucky well enough to know what was going on here. He was trying to punish himself. The man ducked his head again, softly kissing another one of Bucky’s bruises. He kept it higher on his chest though, avoiding the marks that rested lower on his waist. That was a comfort boundary he had no need to push.

"Steve!" Bucky rasped again, still shifting in discomfort, still pleading.

Steve looked up again, a question now already formed on his lips. “Why do you want me to stop?” He asked quietly, willing, but still stubborn. He wasn’t going to let Bucky torture himself over this.

The color continued to rise in Bucky’s cheeks and he dropped his gaze way, unable to meet Steve’s piercing blue eyes. “You shouldn’t…” He rasped thickly.

"Do you not  _want_  me to touch you?” Steve pressed, his tone open, and reasonable.

"No," Bucky said quickly, his eyes flashing with embarrassment. "I…I do…I love you…I don’t want anyone else but-"

"Then let me." Steve said, firm, and final.

Bucky swallowed back his guilt as best he could, trying to force his tense, aching muscles to relax. If he was completely honest with himself, Bucky  _didn’t_ want Steve to stop. The evidence of his decisions the night before made him feel sick, filthy…used…but Steve’s touch, soft bushes of his fingertips, feather-light kisses, soothed those feelings away. It was wonderful, and terrible. Bucky didn’t want to let go in spite of Steve, who was trying his best to gently pry his guilt from him.

Steve’s hands slid gently down his waist, as he pressed his chapped lips to each and every one of the marks along Bucky’s torso. He worked his way up from his waist to the first mark at the base of his throat, lingering over each bruise, brushing his lips over each blemish. Finally he stopped, kissing softly over the first mark. Bucky’s tense, guilt-stricken body had finally relaxed and he lay, staring at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded with misery.

"I  _am_  angry at you, you know.” Steve murmured quietly, sinking down beside him again. A painful bark of laughter escaped Bucky’s raw, sore throat.

"Gotta funny way of showing it." He rasped bitterly and Steve raised his eyebrows indignantly.

"I’m not kidding. I’m pissed." He snapped, allowing a carefully measured amount of his bottled-up hurt to enter his voice. "What you did was stupid, and senseless. If you’d  _told_  me…” He started, stopping abruptly. As much as he felt the need to finally let to of the anger that was unquestionably there, he needed to manage it carefully. He couldn’t loose Bucky, not again. “I told you not to get the medicine because there were other things we needed more. I didn’t know you were as worried as you were. If you’d’ve just talk to me Bucky,” Steve pleaded. “We could have figured something out. You didn’t  _need_  to do this!”

Bucky blinked rapidly, pushing himself up onto his elbows, disbelief cut into his features. “ _Talk_  to you?” Bucky repeated increadulously, his jaw going slack. “Steve, I  _lied_  to you! I went behind your back! I slept with other guys for petty cash, and you’re upset because I wasn’t  _communicating_  with you?” An increadulous scoff tore from Bucky’s lips. “No, Steve, that should be a _lot_  lower on the list.”

Steve set his jaw with frustration, sitting up completely and turning to face him. “Would you stop trying to feed your guilt for a second and listen?” Steve said shortly, and Bucky, a little stunned by the force of his words, fell silent. The blond haired man drew in a deep breath, allowing his eyes to momentarily flutter closed. His tongue slid out, moistening his chapped, pink lips. “I  _am_  mad at you for all of that.” Steve emphasized, his voice now calm and collected, but there was still and undertone of strength, and razor sharpness. “But more…I’m upset…I didn’t want you to do that for me…I never meant to make you feel like selling yourself was your only option to help me…”

"Steve," Bucky protested, "Come on, you can’t think this is your fault!"

"If I’d agreed to let you take money out of the bar account the buy medicine would you have done this?" Steve asked abruptly, and Bucky sat up slowly, his brow drawing into a frown.

"No…" He murmured uncertainly, dropping his gaze away. Steve didn’t say anything else right away, letting his words sink in. Bucky looked back up to Steve, his frown deepening. "Now hang on, if you’re trying to tell me that you blame yourself for this than I’m sorry Steve, but that’s bullshit."

A bitter little smirk tugged at Steve’s lips before fading away again. “I didn’t say that. What I am trying to say is that I don’t blame  _you_  either.”

Bucky held Steve’s gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes away. He could bear the look of forgiveness in Steve’s eyes. “You should…” He mumbled, his raw voice breaking slightly. “It was my decision.”

"A decision you felt cornered into." Steve scoffed, irritated now that Bucky was digging in his heels. He reached out, grabbing Bucky’s face with a firm, yet gentle grasp, and turned his eyes up to him. "Bucky, you  _wanted_  to sleep with those guys the same way a trapped fox  _wants_  to chew off its own foot. I _know_ you. You wouldn’t have done it if you thought you had another choice.”

Bucky swallowed painfully, his mouth dry. Everything hurt so much more this morning, emotionally, and physically. His tender, bruised body aching muscles, and sore throat where like bitter reminders of what he’d done; and though he hated to admit it, Steve was right. Had he not been so desperate, had he not feared that he’d loose Steve, Bucky wouldn’t have given those men a second look. If approached by them any other time he would have graciously told them to go fuck themselves. But last night, terrified that Steve’s illness would get the better of him, and knowing he had no other way of acquiring enough money that quickly,  _he_  had approached  _them_. And still, he couldn’t believe that Steve was willing to forgive him. The dark haired man dropped his eyes away, exhaling shakily.

"Is agreeing with you the only way to get you to let me go?" He asked, taking a stab at sounding sarcastic, but it seemed hollow even to his ears.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line, Bucky’s face still held firmly in his hands. “Yep.” He replied coolly, his voice still carrying a definite tone of anger. It would be a while before he wasn’t truely angry at him anymore. “And you can bet your sweet ass I’ll make you believe it eventually too.”

Bucky scoffed, but he couldn’t suppress the bitterly affectionate smile that tugged at his lips. “Okay,” He relented, nodding his head, “okay, let’s say I believe it and call it good, deal?”

With a frustraited sigh, Steve let go of Bucky’s face, his hands dropping heavily into his lap. “Fine.” He said shortly, his gaze dropping to the floor. He loved Bucky, but his stubbornness and self-sacrificial guilt about drove him insane.

The two men sat on the edge of the bed, silent, and uncomfortable. The events of the morning and the night before had driven a wedge between them that both parties knew would take more than a few minutes to resolve. It would be resolved, and their relationship would carry on, just as close and as loving as before; but it could take all day, all week, all month to set things completely right. They couldn’t know the sepecifics for sure, just that giving up on each other wasn’t an option, not matter what. They’d lost each other one already, they weren’t going to let it happen again, not even over something as serious as this.

"Bucky?" Steve asked, his tone unreadable, face turned away.

Bucky swallowed hard, his adrenaline spiking at the sound of Steve’s quiet, maddeningly impassive voice. He parted his chapped, pink lips, his mouth feeling dry, and sticky. “Yeah?” He managed, the single syllable sound very small in the oppressive quiet of the room.

"One more thing." Steve said, his voice little a over a murmur. The man turned suddenly, drawing Bucky against him in a tight hug. The dark haired man startled at the sudden contact, his eyes widening in momentary panic.

Slowly, as he grew accustomed to the feeling of Steve’s strong arms holding him close, Bucky allowed himself to relax. He shifted closer, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder and sliding his arms around his waist. Bucky breathed in deeply the smell of Steve; Steve who smelled like parchment, and fresh apples, Steve who loved him…who would never hurt him…Steve who smelled warm, and safe.

"Don’t ever do anything like this again." Steve pleaded, and Bucky was stunned to hear how broken his lover voice sounded. He was absolutely wrecked, like the thought of Bucky letting himself be hurt again for his sake was too much to bear. "Just promise me that." He begged hoarsely, "promise me you won’t. That’s all. Just…don’t let anyone touch you…hurt you again for me…please…"

Bucky’s fingers curled tightly into the back of Steve’s shirt and he pressing in closer, feeling the irregular rise and fall of Steve’s chest as the other man’s breath caught in his throat. He tucked his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, feeling his warm skin against his lips. “I won’t,” he breathed, his words truthful, and soothing. “I won’t, I promise.”

Steve’s breath hitched in his throat, and a cough rattled deep in his chest. Bucky was suprised to find that it didn’t sound as bad as the night before. “Easy…” He whispered, pulled back as Steve reigned the coughing fit in, stifling, and choking it back. “Easy Stevie… How is that medicine working for you?”

Steve managed a tight smile before dropping his gaze away again. “It’s helping,” he admitted. “Thank you…”

Bucky reached over, sliding his fingers through the top of Steve’s honey-blond hair. Considering the events of the night before, Steve may be upset with him for saying this, but it couldn’t be help, because it was true, and Bucky meant it was every sore and bruised fiber in his being. “For you,  _anything._ ”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has a flashback to a sexual assault scene near the middle.

To say that everything was alright between them was an outright lie. The day was passed in the most uncomfortable of moods, varying between gentle, affirming words, and violent bursts of temper. Neither blamed the other though. The kinder thing was just to ignore it. Little things that normally would have ever phased Steve, today, resulted in bursts of frustration. Bucky often stood by quietly through these, allowing Steve to blow off his anger bit by bit. He couldn’t fault him for that.

Likewise, Steve didn’t fault Bucky when a slip up, a shattered plate, resulted in a crippling wave of misdirected guilt that had him sobbing into Steve’s chest. _'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just so fucking sorry…'_

It was a miserable, albeit necessary way to spend Bucky’s day off. As the morning wore on, the affects of the medicine began to wear off, and Steve spiraled back into fits of coughing that ripped at his sore throat and shook his weakened body. Around the time Steve was growing feverish again, Bucky insisted he have more of the medicine and lie down. Steve was reluctant; knowing that the cost of the medicine  _far_  exceeded it’s monetary value. Knowing the pain, and trauma it had cost the man he loved, Steve was hesitant to take any more than absolutely necessary. But Bucky was as stubborn as Steve was reluctant, and managed to talk him into a half-dose, after which he slept on he couch for a solid four hours.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Steve stirred groggily, feeling his drug-induced sleep slowly release him from it’s grasp. He felt heavy, and numb, but the horrible burning heat that the fever had brought with it had gone. His throat was sore from the weeks of consistent coughing, but it no longer tickled and itched. Little blessings. Steve had learned to enjoy these moments while they lasted.

Even before he sat up, he could hear Bucky moving around in the kitchen behind him, his shoes tapping softly against he tile.  _Shoes?_  Bucky had been barefoot when he’d drifted off. Was he planning on going out? Today of all days?

With a moan, Steve managed to push himself up, regretting it almost immediately. Medicine or no medicine, his body was sore and battered; weak from fighting the illness, and everything hurt. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to blink the sleep from his vision as he exhaled slowly.

"Bucky?" He asked hoarsely, prying his eyes open again and looking over the back of the couch. Bucky paused where he stood, half-way through pulling his patched coat on over his arms. He turned to him with a bitterly affectionate smile, absently smoothing down the front of his coat.

"Hey Stevie." He said in a hushed tone, half hoping that he could convince his lover to go back to sleep.

"Where are you going?" Steve asked raspily, sitting himself up and running his hands over his face.

Bucky slid his tongue over his lips, shifting slightly where he stood. “Gotta open the bar,” he explain, knowing that Steve would want him to stay home. “Alcoholism doesn’t take Sunday off, and the costumers of every other bar that’s closed to tonight are gonna be looking for a place to buy brandy.” He smirked faintly. “More costumers, more money. Can’t pass it up Steve, we need it too much.” Bucky pressed, already prepared to defend his intention, but to his surprise, Steve was nodding his head.

"You’re right," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "It’ll probably be pretty busy tonight for a change. We can’t pass up the business."

A relieved smile tugged at Bucky’s still sore lips, and he could feel his heart rate settling. He hadn’t wanted to argue with Steve about this, it wouldn’t have been good for either of them, but now he didn’t have to. “Yeah,” he agreed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “But, I should go if I want to open on time,” Bucky breathed, stepping over and touching a soft kiss to Steve’s cheek. He still wasn’t quite sure where they stood on physical affection after last night, but he had to assume that the cheek was safe. He refused to leave without Steve knowing  _somehow_  that he loved him, and still wanted to be affectionate towards him.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm as he turned away, stopping him dead in his tracks. The kiss Bucky had pressed to his cheek seemed so hesitant, so fearful, almost as though Bucky wasn’t sure that Steve really  _wanted_  him, and that wouldn’t do. The blond haired man slid an arm around his waist, gently pulling his lover against him and closing the distance between their lips. He’d been angry today, and he’d said something that had probably hurt, regardless of how often Bucky assured him that he understood and that Steve deserved to blow off some steam. Still, Bucky needed to understand just as clearly that Steve was still sorry about them.

Bucky blinked, surprised, but certainly not upset by the kiss. Steve’s touch was supremely gentle as he brushed his hands over his neck and jawline, giving him no reason to be afraid, giving him no reason to equate this to what he’d allowed to be done to him the night before. He turned his head slightly as Steve pressed the kiss deeper, holding him against him, his hand sliding down the gentle curve of Bucky’s spine.

Reluctantly, Bucky broke the kiss, his forehead touching Steve’s, hands resting on his boyfriend’s broad chest. “I should go…” He whispered softly, reluctant to cut off something so nice after such an emotionally draining day.

Steve offered him a faint smile, pulling back away from him. “I’ll get my shoes.” He breathed, turning away as he broke the contact.

Buck blinked slowly, processing Steve’s words. “Wait,” Bucky objected, his response slightly delayed. He stepped after Steve, grabbing the other man’s arm. “Wait, no. Steve, you’re sick, you’re not coming.” He insisted, gazing firmly at Steve, determined not to budge.

Steve pried his arm free, breaking the gaze and strolling over to the door. “Yes I am.” He said simply, stooping to snatch his shoes off of the worn, dirty doormat.

Bucky’s jaw dropped, his expression washing with flabbergasted annoyance. “Steve!” He insisted. “No! It’ll be late! You need your sleep.”

"I just slept for four hours, I’m not going back to sleep for a while. I feel better than I have in weeks, and the medicine is in full effect. I’m coming along." Steve countered. "Besides, I’ll go crazy if you leave me here."

Steve’s shoes and coat where already on and he had turned expectantly to face Bucky before he had so much as formulated a response. Bucky gapped slightly, stunned in the face of Steve’s obstinate stubbornness. Steve raised his eyebrows, staring him down. The dark haired man closed his mouth slowly, pinching his lips together.

"Fine." Bucky said, caving under the pressure of Steve’s intent stare. "Fine, but you’ve got to take it easy. You stay behind he bar, and try not to work yourself too hard." He demanded, and a faint grin pulled at Steve’s lips.

"I think I can manage that."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bucky was right. With many of the other bars in the area closed for Sunday, business was booming. Men and women alike, some familiar, some not, flocked to the bar. Steve had had a taste of what a busy establishment could be like on the night he opened without Bucky, but it was nothing like this. The bar stools were always filled, and a steady flow of customers made themselves comfortable at the tables. Bucky was hopping; moving quickly from one table to another, scribbling down orders, offering suggestion, and passing idle comments. Steve occupied himself with taking care of the customers at the bar and, if there was a quiet moment, playing the piano, although there seldom was.

Bucky checked in on him frequently, if only to reassure himself that Steve was fairing alright. The medicine was wearing off, but Steve could manage. It was too busy at the bar for him to rest and leave Bucky to shoulder the work. There was only so far he could stretch himself, and if Steve could be a help in any way you could be damn well sure that he would.

Gradually the steady flow of customers eased as the night went on, although there were still enough patrons to keep the two men engaged in their task. Regardless, it was nice to not have to scramble from one drink to the next. It was nice to be able to take his time, and make an art form out of the drinks the way he liked. It was nice to be able to read Bucky’s hand writing again, which morphed into almost illegible scribbles when he was in a hurry.

Steve whipped his damp hands off on a soft, linen towel, draping it casually over his shoulder when he was done. His chest was bothering him again, feeling tight, and achey, but so far the coughing hadn’t started back up again. He could feel the medicine working. It was nice to know that there was an end in sight. As he’d been cleaning off his hands, another costumer had entered, taking his seat at the far end of the bar. Steve smiled faintly, shaking himself out of his thoughts as he strolled over, collect, friendly, and professional.

"Evening," he greeted the man with a smile. "What can I get for you?"

The man raised his eyes to Steve for a moment, twisting his lips off to the side. He was handsome enough, in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way, with thick dark hair and even stubble across his strong jawline. The man bit down on his lips, glancing around, his eyes landing on Bucky. “Him,” he commented absently.

Steve blinked, a frown tugging at his features. “Sorry?” He asked, assuming he had misheard.

The man turned back to him, his face flashing with annoyance. “I want to talk to the other bartender, dipshit. Get him for me.” He snapped impatiently.

Steve set his jaw firmly, his eyes flashing with suppressed distaste. It was well within his rights as one of the owners of the establishment to throw this guy out on his ear, but it had been a good night for business, and making a scene could only hurt that. The blond haired man ran his tongue over his teeth, his breath coming out in a hiss of frustration. And he’d finally been in a good mood too. If he wanted to play that game, fine. He’d see what he had to say to Bucky, and then determine weather or not it was worth informing him that they didn’t serve egotistical dicks with anger-management issues.

Steve stalked away from the mouthy customer, snatching a glass off the bar on his way by and beginning to polish it off with altogether too much force. He’d had a difficult enough day already, a douchy costumer was really the last thing he wanted to deal with. To be honest, he wanted to go home, take his medicine, and snuggle up with his boyfriend under the cold sheets of his narrow bed. Was that too much to ask?

Steve waved Bucky over, and the dark-haired man altered his course, coming over with his tray of dirty glasses balanced deftly on his fingertips. “What’s up Stevie?” He asked, smirking, but keeping his tone hushed so that the customers didn’t hear the term of endearment.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line, jerking a thumb over this shoulder. “Asshole at the end of the bar wants to talk to you.” He said, his voice layered with distaste. Steve had no time for people who were rude to employees in the service industry.

A frown tugged at Bucky’s brow as he soaked in Steve’s words, the corner of his lip tugging up slightly at his choice of adjective. He clapped him absently on the shoulder and stepped past, sliding his tray on to the counter with a kind of practiced precision that came from the weeks of work he’d done during Steve’s illness.

The dark haired man strolled confidently down the length of the bar, whipping his towel out of his belt and cleaning up a minor spill on his way by. Bucky let the towel drop onto the smooth, dark surface of the bar and he did a neat turn to face their trouble costumer. “Okay, what can I…” Bucky’s words died before the completed sentence left his lips, his throat suddenly closing.

"Nice seeing you again," the man purred, his gaze raking over Bucky’s long, muscular figure in a way that was altogether inappropriate for a public place. A smirk tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth, his tongue slidding suggestively over his teeth.

Bucky felt his chest grow suddenly tight, his stomach turning sour. “What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice barely above a strangled whisper, eyes locked on the man’s sharp features.

He shrugged absently, tracing the tip of his finger over the smooth grain of the bar-top. “Open establishment isn’t it?” He asked, his tone undeniably teasing, but there was nothing good natured about it. It was cruel, like he was stringing Bucky along and knew there was nothing he could do about it. “Came for a drink.”

Bucky set his jaw, trying desperately not to show just how badly his hands were shaking. “What do you want.” He said shortly, abandoning all pretenses of civility. He just wanted to serve him his drink and get him out of here, hopefully before Steve finished taking orders around the dinning room.

The man paused a moment, considering Bucky’s snipped question. A soft hum escape him and his wet his lips again, his gaze far more focused on Bucky than on the menu. After all, it was a much more entertaining view. Bucky’s slacks fit him better than they had any right too, hugging his ass and muscular thighs, nicely accenting the gentle curve of his calves. The white dress shirt that Steve had insisted on as part of a professional image accentuated the length of his torso, showing off the muscular lines of his shoulders. The top two buttons of the shirt had been undone, his tie hanging loose around his neck, exposing the length of Bucky’s neck. The faint outline of a mark could still be seen at the base of his throat. The man smirked coldly. He remembered that mark.

He inhaled deeply, folding his hands in front of him. “Scotch.” He said simply, “ _and_ ,” he continued, a smirk tugging at his lips, “I want to know what time you get off tonight.”

Bucky froze, the scotch glass nearly slipping from his fingers as adrenaline abruptly dumped into his system, only serving to worsen the shaking in his hands. He caught his breath, swallowing hard as he turned. Keeping his eyes lowered, he set the glass in front of him, managing to pour the scotch without spilling it.

As Bucky turned away, the man felt his temper flare, and he stood up, reaching over the bar to grab Bucky’s wrist. His fingers dug into Bucky’s skin, grip tightening painfully.

Bucky startled, feeling the man’s strong hand wrap around his wrist, stopping him dead and sending his mind reeling. Bucky’s thoughts where suddenly pitched into chaos, tangling memories with reality, sucking him back to hours before.

“ _Wait.” The plea was hoarse, and desperate as Bucky caught his breath, his limbs trembling beneath him, aching fingers gripping into the sheets. “Wait…please…” He was going to loose it. The pain was too much, the guilt was too much. He was going to throw up._

_Rough fingers twisted through his damp brown locks, wrenching his head back as a cry of pain tore from Bucky’s lips. The man’s wet, greedy mouth sucked a painful mark behind his ear, before his teeth closed over his ear lobe, bitting, and sucking. A cruel purr of pleasure rumbled in his client’s chest, his free hand sliding down the length of Bucky’s body._

_"Stop," Bucky pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please, I- I can’t, just, please stop." The pressure on his ear increased and a yelp of pain escaped his sore, bruised lips._

_The man sucked down on his earlobe, the faint taste of blood on his tongue as he let the lobe slip from between his teeth. “I bought you.” He hissed in Bucky’s ear, his hand tightening through the other man’s hair. “You don’t get to say when we stop. I do.” A cruel scoff of laughter tore from his throat as his fighter tips dug into Bucky’s skin, leaving wide, finger shaped bruises across his waist. “Remember? For the next few hours, I own you.”_

Bucky yanked away, freeing his wrist from the man’s grasp, his back hitting the shelf behind him as he reeled away. The glasses jostled as Bucky crashed into the shelf, two of them tipping off and shattering loudly on the floor at Bucky’s feet. At the sudden noise, Steve had abandoned his task, skidding around the bar.

"You okay?" He asked earnestly, his gaze traveling up from the shattered glasses on the floor to the expression on Bucky’s face. Steve’s blood ran cold. Bucky was standing as far back from the bar as he could, fingers gripping he shelf behind him. He looked sick. He looked scared. He looked like he was going to cry. Steve’s head snapped from Bucky, over to the dark haired man at the end of the bar. Even with Bucky clearly shaken and upset, the man was still eyeing him like a cut of meat, perhaps even more so than before. If anything, he seemed to like seeing Bucky like this, like seeing him scared and vulnerable was some kind of sick turn-on.

And then it all clicked into place. The way he looked at Bucky like an object, the way Bucky returned the gaze with a kind of haunted familiarity, it all made sense. This guy had been one of Bucky’s clients last night, and he was back for more.

Steve moved forward, instinctively placing himself between Bucky and the threat. The man looked up, his lips curling into a sarcastic, pandering smile. “I’m good, thank you,” he purred, gesturing to his glass of scotch. “Mr. Barnes here has me  _well_  taken care of.” His eyes slid past Steve, zeroing back in on Bucky as he bit down seductively on the swell of his lower lip, the skin flushing with hot blood as he let go. He could see that Bucky was uncomfortable, perhaps close to panic, and wasn’t it wonderful?

Steve, pale with rage, stepped up to the bar, leaning in as he gripped the countertop. “Leave.” He hissed, his dark blue eyes seething with hatred. “Now.”

The man reluctantly tore his attention from Bucky, turning his gaze back up to the other bartender, who’s expression was so fierce. It suddenly occurred to him that there was a lot more behind the blond haired man’s expression than distaste. There was fury there. This was personal. The man’s dark green eyes suddenly lit with understanding, his mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise.

"Ahhh…." He breathed, a smirk pulling at his lips. " _Steve_ …the  _boyfriend_. Or, I _assume_  boyfriend, considering he wouldn’t stop moaning your name last night.” The man purred, watching with pleasure as Steve’s expression shifted to stunned horror, fading seamlessly to hatred. But he wasn’t done yet, if he could have Bucky than there was more damage he’d like to do before he was thrown out. “Your pretty little boyfriend’s a whore I hope you know,” he added casually, taking a sip of his scotch, looking up to meet Bucky’s horrified gaze as he continued. “He’s a needy little cockslut…oh sure he acts tough, but you should hear him cry for mercy when you tear open that tight ass of his, it’s pathetic really…Such a  _filthy_ ,  _dirty_  mouth…and you should hear him beg…”

Steve’s hands slammed down on the counter, rattling the entire bar. “I said _leave_.” He snarled, abruptly circling the bar and grabbing the back of the man’s collar, hauling him from his seat.

The green eyed man twisted out of his grip, his fingers curling into the material of Steve’s shirt and yanking him close, his breath hot against the other man’s ear. “I’m leaving.” He hissed dangerously, still managing that infuriating smirk, “But I want you to cherish the knowledge that I’ve never had quite as much fun as when I was fucking your  _tramp_  of a boyfriend.” He spat, pulling away, and slipping out just before Steve succumbed to the urge to murder him where he stood.

The second the door shuddered closed, Steve unrooted himself from where he stood, circling around behind the bar again. Bucky remained right where he left him, clutching the shelf for support, looking nauseous, eyes wide with horror. “Bucky,” Steve breathed softly, grabbing his arm to support him. He looked like his knees could go out from under him any second.

Bucky slowly turned his haunted gaze up to Steve seeming almost afraid. Telling Steve himself was one thing, but having one of his clients here, describing what they’d done; that was something entirely different. Bucky was half afraid that his lover would be angry with him again, that hearing it in crass detail would derail his trust, and tear the wound open again.

"Steve," he rasped, his throat tight. "Steve I’m sorry.  _Please-_ ”

"Hey," Steve hushed him, everything in him wanting to hold Bucky, kiss him, stroke his face and assure him it would be alright, and that he was cared for, and deeply loved; but he couldn’t. The few consumers who had been at the bar had awkwardly paid for their drinks and slipped out, apparently having picked up on the nature of the disruption; the costumers in the dinning room, not so much. Steve didn’t give a flying fuck about what any one of them thought, but their business was essential to keeping himself and Bucky fed and under a roof, so Steve had to satisfy himself with a gentle touch to Bucky’s shoulder rather than the comfort he so desperately wanted to immerse him in. "Go to the back Bucky," he suggested in a whisper. "Sit down, I’ll be in to check on you a just a minute." Steve promised.

Bucky swallowed hard, allowing his tortured mind a small measure of comfort I the fact that Steve only seemed worried. Not upset, not angry, just concerned. “Okay…” He managed, wishing desperately that could just curl up against Steve’s chest and cry. But he knew as well as Steve that he couldn’t, so instead, he did as his lover instructed, and slipped away to the back room.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Every second that Steve couldn’t follow was pure torment. Bucky was upset, and alone, and he wanted nothing more than to be with him, comforting him, but he had no choice in the matter. Steve took his tray around the dinning room, apologizing to the customers one by one for the disruption and offering menus and refills. He scooped up the money left on the bar and swept up the shattered glass on the floor. Ignoring the fatigue that was beginning to drag at his weakened body, Steve saw to the costumers, making sure they were all satisfied before slipping off out of the main room.

The back room, tucked behind the bar through a discreet doorway, was nothing special. It was a dim, colorless room, more long than it was wide, with shelved running up three out of the four walls. These shelves were stacked with supplies for the bar; extra glasses, napkins, plates and silver wear, as well as ingredients for the few food items they offered. The ground was stacked with crates of various different types of alcohol. Bucky was perched on a crate of vodka bottles, his shoulders hunched, head between his knees. He looked miserable.

Steve enters wordlessly, ghosting over and dropping to his knees in front of Bucky. He reached out, softly touching Bucky’s shoulder, his stomach knotting with pity as his lover flinched under his touch. The dark haired man didn’t look up, unable to face Steve, but everything in him was aching for comfort so, without lifting his head, he shifted forward, sinking into Steve’s embrace.

Steve gathered Bucky against him, shifting him gently to the floor. His fingers combed through Bucky hair, gently stroking his soft brown locks as he murmured words of comfort into his ear. A tremor ran through Bucky’s body, and his finger tightened into the back of Steve’s shirt. Steve could feel Bucky draw a shuddering gasp of air, posed to speak, to explain, or beg forgiveness, but Steve cut him off before he could begin.

"Don’t apologize…" He whispered, shifting him closer. "This wasn’t your fault. This doesn’t change anything, okay?"

Bucky was still for a long moment before finally nodding his head, accepting the fact that Steve felt he had nothing to forgive. He parted his dry lips, blinking wet eyes. “You deserve so much better than me…” He whispered hoarsely, gripping so hard into Steve’s shirt that his fingers ached.

"Not possible," Steve murmured, turning his head to press a gentle kiss to his temple. "Even if there were someone out there better than you I could never love them."

A bitter, shuddering laugh shook Bucky’s figure, and his fingers uncurled from his shirt, sliding around to rest on Steve’s chest. “ _God…_ " He rasped painfully. "Someone better than a gay, disgraced, failure who was discharged from the navy and whored himself out for a bottle of medicine? I can’t imagine such a person exists."

Steve reached down, taking Bucky’s chin and turning his face up, meeting his gaze, eyes laced with pain. “That’s  _not_  true.” He said sharply, combing his free hand through Bucky’s hair. “You’re  _not_  a whore, and you’re _not_  a tramp, I don’t care  _what_  that guy says. You’re strong, and you’re intelligent and loyal. You have a devastating wit, and you care about people more than they deserve. You’re hardworking, absolutely gorgeous, and I love you more than I love anyone else on this damn planet, so don’t let  _scum_  like him reduce you to a tramp.”

Bucky’s throat tightened as he looked up a him, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly his dropped his gaze away, reaching up to clap his hand softly against Steve’s jawline. “You should be a poet Steve,” he rasped softly, trying to keep his voice even, despite it’s threat to break. “That was beautiful…”

"Really Buck?" Steve asked quietly, managing a sad little smile. "You’re joking now?"

"Gotta take care of that devastating wit you seem to like so much…" He responded, his voice betraying him, cracking at the end. He didn’t want Steve to worry about him, he didn’t want Steve to feel responsible for not being able to make him happy right now, so he joked, even though he knew Steve could see right through it.

Steve cupped his lovers face softly in his hands, kissing his forehead. He held there for a while, feeling the warmth of Bucky’s skin against his lips before pulling back, carefully disentangling their legs. “I’ve got to go,” he whispered reluctantly. “I’m gonna close as early as I can tonight, but unless you really feel ready to be around people I want you to stay in here.” Bucky was already nodding, but Steve wasn’t done. “And not just to help me either okay?” He pressed, “if you’re not ready, don’t come out, I don’t care how busy it sounds.”

Bucky granted him a bitter smile, brushing his fingers softly over his cheekbone. “Okay,” he relented, “okay I promise.”

Steve nodded, suspicious, but satisfied. “Okay,” he murmured in response, pressing another quick kiss to his forehead. “I love you.”

Bucky nodded giving him a gentle shove. “I know, I love you too, now go.” He urged him, seeing the reluctance in Steve’s eyes, seeing hesitance pull at his steps until the door swung closed behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

Nine hours without medicine was beginning to seem like a really bad idea. Steve’s last dose had been at 2:00 that afternoon before his four hour nap. It was nearing eleven now, and he felt like he was falling apart at the seams. Bucky had warned him that working the bar for five to six hours would be hard on him, but he’d brushed his concerns aside. Now, he wished he hadn’t. His lungs ached from trying to suppress his coughs, his throat tight, and burning from the effort. The dizzy spells were back, and Steve wanted nothing more that to take his medicine and sleep, but there was still work to be done.

Steve had closed the bar as soon as the last customer had walked out and set to sweeping and wiping down. He had stepped into the back room to see if he could employ Bucky’s help now that they were alone, but he’d changed his mind when he’d seen Bucky dozing on a pile of unwashed tablecloths. He’d just looked so exhausted that Steve couldn’t bring himself to wake him, not until he had too.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Last job. Steve tied off the bag of garbage that was sitting behind he bar, slinging it over his shoulder. In a few minute, he would wake Bucky, and they could go home, and after a day like today, Steve couldn’t wish it soon enough.

Steve’s free hand curled around the doorknob, pulling the heavy, hardwood door open. He grunted slightly, shifting the bag of garbage slightly as he slid through the gap. As soon as his hand was off the knob, the gusty wind pulled the bar door closed with a _bang_. Steve grimaced, absently touching the smooth dark wood, regretting the noise, hoping it hadn’t spooked his sleeping boyfriend.

The wind had turned cold, bitter, and bitting. It made Steve’s already agitated lungs burn. He breathed in slowly through his nose, his breath fogging, crystallizing in front of his chapped lips. Steve swallowed hard, feeling like the brutal air had dried out even his throat as he walked to the ally behind the bar.

His feet scuffed quietly on the rough, dirty pavement as Steve made his way through the inky darkness. The light from the street lamp around the corner made little difference back here. Shame really, finding the dumpster was always a bit of a trick. Tonight, it took several fumbled attempts and a skinned shin before Steve managed to pry open the dumpster and deposits his baggage inside.

The almost complete darkness was suddenly shattered. A match flared to life a few feet away, briefly silhouetting a pair of hands, cupped around the end of a cigarette. Steve squinted into the darkness, his lips parting slightly to speak when his stomach suddenly dropped out from inside him. The smoldering end of the cigarette tipped up, briefly illuminating the sharp contours of a face Steve really wished he wouldn’t have had to see again.

Bucky’s client stood a few feet away, his lips pulling into an ugly smirk. the expression was exaggerated by the red-orange lighting provided by the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette. “Hello again _Steve,”_ he said softly, growling the name like a victory, an accomplishment; flaunting the fact that he only knew it because he’d screwed Bucky over.

"I thought I told you to leave." Steve snarled, the frigid air hitching in his throat, a deep, wet cough tearing from his body. The man paused a moment, studying him with mock concern.

He gave a pitying click of his tongue, strolling absently down the length of the alleyway. “I’m out,” he commented cooly. “I haven’t set a foot back into your quaint little place. This ally is public domain. Besides,” he added, taking a drag of his cigarette and letting the smoke curl from his lips. “I was kind of hoping I would see Mr. Barnes back here before he night was over; make him an offer.”

Steve felt his entire body warm with fury. He may not know the extent of what his guy had done to Bucky, but he knew enough. “Don’t, _ever_ , go near him again.” Steve snarled, moving forward aggressively, his jaw clenched, eyes seething the hatred.

The man turned casually, blowing a lungful of smoke into Steve’s face. “Oooohh…controlling much?” He tisked softy, shaking his head as that cruel, manipulative smirk pulled at his lips. “Not exactly the sign of a health relationship now is it?”

Steve smacked the cigarette from the man’s long, sender fingers, leaning in with bared teeth. “If you think this is me being controlling you’re dumber than I thought. You hurt him, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let it happen again.”

"Nobody made him do anything," he lied, smoothing Steve’s collar in a pandering gesture. "He offered, I paid him, simple as that."

"No." Steve spat, his jaw spasming with suppressed fury. "You _hurt_ him. Now I don’t know what you did but he’s scared to _death_ of you, and if you think I’m going to let you near him, so that you can hurt him again, you’d better think different.”

The light from the street lamp around the corner illuminated only the pale half-moon of the man’s jawline, but the light was enough to show his expression twisting into an ugly sneer. After a moment, the look was replaced by that sickening, pandering smirk, and he reached out, patting Steve’s cheek twice before hauling back and punching him across the jaw.

Pain exploded through Steve’s head, his vision suddenly sucked away into blackness as he crashed to the ground. Everything in him that was still weak, and sick begged to just lie on the ground and let this pain that jarred his skull overtake him, but he couldn’t. As soon as the huge blotches of black decreased and he could see the stars above him coming back into focus, Steve drug himself up. His legs felt like jello underneath him, his vision still spinning, which was why he wasn’t prepared when the man’s fist plowed into his gut.

The air escaped Steve lungs in one huge gush and he stumbled back, glancing roughly off the brick wall. Bucky’s client reached out, grabbing Steve’s collar and dragging him forward, shoving him again the bricks and hitting him again. A vicious smirk pulled at his lips, and he struck again, something crunching satisfyingly beneath his bruising knuckles.

_Cheated_. That’s what he’d been. He’d been cheated. Last night, the pretty brunet with those filthy red lips had practically thrown himself at him, but the second this boyfriend, this _Steve_ , was in the picture he was suddenly a _lot_ more interested in keeping his legs closed. Cheated. He’d been cheated, not only of having Bucky on his knees on his bedroom floor, he’d been cheated of his revenge for that. Once it had become obvious that Bucky wasn’t coming back with him he’d been so looking forward to feeding the truth to his boyfriend, seeing the trust shatter, seeing Bucky heart break; seeing him regret not doing what he was told. But he’d been cheated of that too. Someone would pay for it, and that someone was Steve.

His blows cracked viciously off of Steve’s jaw, cheek-bones, and nose. His face was bloodied, and already discoloring with bruises, his body lurching weakly with each blow. Finally the man let go of Steve’s collar, watching with a satisfied smirk as he crumpled to the ground. The sharp-featured man dropped into a crouch, his bruised knuckles smarting, the skin across his first two knuckles spilt open. “I’d _love_ to see you get up after that.” He purred, as Steve lurched sickly a deep, wet cough rattling his body, bloody saliva spraying from his split lips. He straightened, pushing his hair out of his eye as strolling down the ally, withdrawing another cigarette from his pocket.

The light from the flaring match disrupted the darkness, brightening the ally for a moment and lengthening the shadows before burning down. The man lit up his cigarette, drawing in deeply and turning to leave when he became suddenly aware of a scuffling behind him. He yanked the cigarette from between his teeth, rage frothing inside of him even as he turned.

Steve, head down, coughing blood, and leaning heavily against the wall, was on his feet again.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky _had_ been disrupted by the slamming door. Upon prying open his heavy eyelids, he been disoriented, not sure how he’d come to be sleeping on a pile of dirty table cloths in a chilly back room. For a few moments, he didn’t even remember that it was _their_ back room. And then everything settled back into place, bits and pieces fitting neatly together to form the entire picture of the evening. God, it must be late now. Steve would be closing up. He should be helping.

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, catching his balance on the shelf beside him, his fingernails digging into the wood. A few of the bottles that were stored on the shelf clinked faintly together as Bucky’s weight displaced their resting place. Slowly, as he readjusted, he let go of the shelf, making his way to the door.

The bar was empty. Bucky stared out at the dark dining room, silent, exhausted and confused. The lights were all off, the dark shapes of the furniture silhouetted against the watery yellow glow seeping through the window from the street lamp outside. The door, the door rattling on its hinges, that’s what must have woken him.

A tired smile tugged at Bucky’s lips. If Steve was taking out the garbage that meant that he was done for the night. The bar was closed. They could go home. Bucky walked to the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool night air. Steve really shouldn’t be out here, Bucky thought with a twing of annoyance. The air was too chilly, it would be bad for his lung. Steve had medicine now, it was helping, Bucky could tell, but he wasn’t in full health just yet. He still needed rest, he needed to be out of this frigid air, he need to be home, in bed, with him.

And then speak of the devil. As he walked around the front of the building towards the ally, Bucky heard a deep, throaty cough. He had been right then, the cold was adgitating Steve’s lungs again. And then he heard something else; the crack of knuckles against skin, a grunt of pain, an aggressive snarl. Adrenaline dumped into Bucky’s system, any traces of fatigue suddenly brutally stripped away. His slow, almost lazy stroll morphed into a stumbling sprint as he carriened around the corner of the building.

"Steve!" He shouted, his voice breaking fearfully. Bucky, momentarily blind after standing under the glow of the street lamp, could only make out a vague figure straightening up, flexing bleeding knuckles.

"You’re a little late Mr. Barnes." The sinister voice purred, as its owner turned fully, strolling down he ally towards him. As Bucky’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a crumpled figure lying on the ground, coughing painfully, still trying to push himself up even when his arms could no longer lift him.

Steve’s name escaped Bucky’s breathless lungs, slipping from his chapped lips like a prayer. God…whatever god was up there, Bucky was praying now, preying that Steve was alright, praying that he wouldn’t loose him. He’d give anything. He’d trade anything in the world if it meant that Steve would be alright.

"Your boyfriend pissed me off," the man said cooly, snapping Bucky out of his thought as he drew closer. "I was actually considering finishing the job and being done with it, after all, there can’t be  _that_ many people who’d care; but now you’re here.” He purred, his lips curling into a vicious smirk. “And I think maybe we can barter for poor Stevie.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, feeling his stomachs turn sour, feeling the color drain from his face. He would do anything, _anything_ for Steve, anything to keep him alive. And then suddenly he remembered Steve holding him, begging him in a heartbroken tone not to do anything like that again. He remembered the way his fingers had gripped into his back, how his tears had soaked into his shoulder. He couldn’t do that. He’d sold himself out to this man in exchange for Steve’s life once before, he wasn’t going to do it again.

He could see him smirking now, wearing the face of a man who’d already won. He looked proud, arrogant, and hungry. His eyes raked over Bucky’s body, tongue sliding out to wet his lips. “What’d’you say Barnes?” He whispered, closing the distance between them, his breath hot on Bucky’s lips. His hands slid around, groping him unashamedly, like he didn’t even have to ask, like he owned him and was free to do whatever he pleased with his body and emotions.

Bucky felt a sense of fear, and hatred, and helplessness boiling inside of him. His breath hitched in his throat, and suddenly he bolted past him, lunging for Steve, but his way was abruptly blocked. His client grabbed him, turning him and pinning him roughly against the wall. A harsh laugh escaped his lips, steam curling from between them. “Oh no no no…” He purred, raking his fingers forcefully through Bucky’s hair, gripping into it and pulling his head back. “You and me, we’re going to make a bargain.” He explained ruthlessly, his lips pulling back in a smirk, teeth grazing Bucky’s exposed throat. “Your boyfriend’s sick, and now he’s got a couple of broken bones on top of it. Now it’s supposed to get awfully cold out tonight, so listen closely to you options, hmmm Barnes?”

The man’s hand gripped Bucky’s chin forcefully, yanking him forwards so that their lips were mere centimeters apart. A smirk played cruelly across his features as he pressed the other man against the wall, his hips grinding against Bucky’s teasingly. He could see the discomfort on his face; He could see the panic that burned behind Bucky’s wild eyes, hear the fearful gasps and chokes that tore from his chapped red lips.

"Now…" He breathed, freeing his finger’s from Bucky’s hair and brushing them across his lips, so rough, and rosy. "Here’s how it’s going to be. You’re going to come back to my apartment with me. You’re going to be a good little whore, and you’re going to get on your knees and do exactly as I say." He purred, his fingers trailing from Bucky’s lips to his throat, his long, sender digits curling around his neck, increasing pressure experimentally.

Bucky gave a pained little choke, trying to yank back, trying to pull himself free of his grip, but he was trapped between a brick wall, and his client, and neither of them were going to move.

The man’s finger’s tighter, digging bruises against his skin. “If you fight me,” He spat, leaning in closer and pinning Bucky more completely against the wall, his entire body pressed against him. “I’m going to _drag_ you by your _hair_. You’ll come with me anyways, and we can leave your pathetic boyfriend to freeze to death on the pavement. ” He snarled, a look of animalistic savagery contorting his features. His looked deranged, his eyes wide with a kind of sadistic thrill. It seemed that nothing gave him more pleasure than controlling people, than hooking them on strings and yanking them around, making them dance for his amusement.

Bucky’s face had lost all of it’s color, his mouth frozen open, his finger’s tugging weakly at the man’s grip on his throat. His eyes were rolled skyward, the exposed whites gleaming in the dim light. Slowly, his client, relaxed his grip, Bucky’s body spasming with relief as he dragged a huge gasp of air into his deprived lungs. He slumped forward momentarily, his weight resting heavily against him as he gasped in ragged breaths, coughing deeply.

His client, with deceptively gentle hands, eased him back up, his fingers stroking softly through his hair. “Or…” He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Bucky’s bloodless lips. “You could be a good boy. Come with me nicely, and I’ll even let you drop him off at home before we go…” He purred, his hands sliding down to Bucky’s waist, as he nuzzled into his neck, pressing perversely soft kisses to the bruises he’d inflicted only moments ago.

Bucky’s head lolled weakly back, his mind numb from the lack of oxygen. He couldn’t think, he could barely breath. His throat ached, feeling like his windpipe had been crushed out of shape by his client’s forceful grip. Bucky could feel his greedy, wet lips on his neck, kissing the bruises, pressing his tongue to them, sending signals of pain to his foggy mind. He felt utterly helpless.

And then suddenly, the fog lifted, and the hopeless terror that had short-circuited his mind morphed hideously into rage. Bucky felt his jaw lock, his blurry vision clearing. “No.” He growled lowly, his muscles bunching under his client’s invasive hands.

The sensation of the hot, wet lips working up his throat stopped abruptly. There was a moment of still, of heavy silence, and then the man pulled back, the cold night air cooling the traces of saliva left on Bucky’s neck. He lifted his head, locking eye’s with him, seeming to leer down, emphasizing his height and strength. “What?” He asked maliciously, a nasty sneer curling his lips in contempt.

Bucky forced himself to swallow, his bruised throat aching as he returned the stare. In one swift motion, Bucky’s knee jerked up, hitting a cheep shot directly between the man’s legs. An animalistic snarl of pain tore from the man’s lips as he fell back, crashing to the pavement. But Bucky didn’t give him time, not one second, to regroup. He was on him in an instant, dropping heavily down on his client’s ribcage, feeling something snap. A kind of sick pleasure stirred deep in Bucky’s gut as his fist collided with the man’s cheek bone. Punching this man’s face bloody shouldn’t feel as good as it did, but it didn’t change the fact that the thrill was there. He had hurt him…raped him. He hadn’t taken no for an answer and now he’d hurt Steve too. That was enough to justify it to Bucky. He would have backed down for himself, but he would kill for Steve.

 The skin across his knuckles spilt painfully as he struck again, the man’s nose breaking under the impact of his fist with a sickening crunch. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his lips pulled back to expose his barred teeth. He was loosing it. He was coming apart at the seems and this was the man who’d done it to him. Bucky hauled back, another blow crashing into the man’s bloodied face. His filthy horrible lips were spilt in a half-dozen places, eyes blacken, nose gushing blood. He looked like he’d gone through a meat grinder, and Bucky froze, his clenched, bloodied fist trembling with suppressed fury. God he wanted to do more. The damage didn’t even begin to cover the hurt that had been inflict on him, much less the hurt he’d inflicted on Steve. But he couldn’t, and only because taking care of Steve was more important.

Bucky reached down, both hands gripping into his rapist’s hair, yanking his face up level with his own. Bucky’s body was shaking with rage, his teeth still bared dangerously. “Check your hearing,” He snarled, his finger’s twisting painfully through his hair. “I said _no_.” With a jerk, he released his head, letting him fall back on the pavement with a muted _thump_.

Bucky stood, stepping over the barely conscious body. As he stalked away from the prone figure of the man who had hurt him, stalked him, and injured the person he loved most he felt suddenly weak. A wave of nausea swept through him, and his knees went wobbly. He felt like he might pass out. Bucky stumbled unsteadily over to Steve’s side. God…gorgeous, determined, stubborn Steve who, even after being beaten, and practically left for dead, was still trying to push himself up. He’d managed to get onto his elbows, his bloody forehead pressed against the cold cement, legs splayed uselessly behind him. His was shaking, trembling violently. Every few second, his body would lurch and a deep, vicious cough would wrack his body, contorting it painful before dropping him again. He was in no state to be on his feet again. Steve may refuse to give up, but sometimes his body had a stronger say in the matter than he did, and right now, his body was begging to just lie still and give up.

Bucky sunk to the ground beside Steve, allowing his weak knees to go out from under him. “Steve…” He rasped softly. “Hey, hey Stevie, c’mon…” Bucky whispered, reaching down to carefully roll Steve over, despite his feeble attempt to push himself up on his own. His lover, blond hair streaked with sticky brown blood, stared wearily up at him, bloodied lips parting painfully.

"Bucky…" He managed, even the one word a labor. He could barely open his eyes. An ugly gash above his left eyebrow gushed blood down over Steve’s face, obscuring his vision in his left eye. God…he looked terrible, and suddenly Bucky’s temper flared again, the feelings of nausea burning away in a seething flash of rage. All he wanted to do was go back over there and hurt him, make him pay; repeat, blow for blow, what he’d done to his precious Steve. He just might have, before he felt Steve’s fingers brush softly against his own, his lips parting to speak, although only a choked gasp of pain escaped him.

Bucky fury melted away as suddenly as it came, his expression draining of hatred as he felt Steve’s finger’s against his own. “Hey,” He whispered, leaning down, softly touching his forehead to his. The blood on Steve’s forehead was slick, and warm. The bleeding had to be stopped. Bucky had to get him home, now. “Hey, it’s okay Steve, don’t try to talk, I’m gonna get you home. I’m gonna patch you up okay? You’re gonna be fine.” He choked, blinking rapidly. Oh god…if he lost him now…

Bucky reached down, sliding his arms carefully under Steve’s neck and thighs, ignoring the pain as his ragged knuckles scrapped against the rough concrete. A soft grunt escaped Bucky’s lips as he lifted Steve, for the first time wishing Steve wasn’t quite so tall and muscular. Usually, he loved that Steve could rest his chin on his head, loved how strong, and warm, and safe his arms felt wrapped around him. He loved that Steve could match him in anything, that he could tackle him playfully to the bed, holding him down and kissing his stomach where he knew he was ticklish until he begged for mercy. But Bucky had never had to carry Steve before. He’d never had his life in his hands, draining away like an hourglass as he struggled to lift him. He had never been forced to consider weather or not he would fail to save the man he loved because he wasn’t strong enough to carry him home. Now that reality was all too prominent.

Steve had gone limp in against him, all his weight hanging heavily in Bucky’s arms as he stumbled out of the ally, not even sparing a glance at the man he’d wished so desperately to hurt only a few seconds before. He seemed so insignificant now, an insect in the face of the giant that was the reality of Steve’s imminent death. If he didn’t get him home, stop the bleeding from that horrible gash in Steve’s forehead, he was going to die.

"Hang on," He rasped, his finger’s gripping into the material of Steve’s shirt as he stumbled a few more steps down the dark street. "Hang on Steve…I’m not gonna let you die… _God_ …Hang on…”


	14. Chapter 14

For every step that Bucky carried him, Steve’s weight seemed to increase, weighing heavily on his arms, straining the muscles all the way to his shoulders and down his back. When he’d first lifted his weak, broken frame off of the ground, he’d felt the muscles in his arms strain. Now, so far from the ally he had staggered away from, his arms were trembling with fatigue, and his knees shook harder with every step.

Bucky was afraid, so afraid, and of so many things. He was afraid he wouldn’t be fast enough, or strong enough. He was afraid his client would manage to scrap himself off the ground and follow them. He was afraid he would feel Steve’s ragged breath shudder to a stop; afraid he’d feel him go cold in his arms. At the moment though, he was mostly afraid that his freezing, aching fingers would betray him and let Steve fall from his arms. Bucky didn’t dare shift Steve’s position to get a better grip though. He was too badly hurt. He could tell just by the way he was breathing that he had more than one broken rib. In order to ease the strain on his limbs and get a better grip on him, Bucky would have to hike Steve higher against his chest. To do that would jar Steve’s fragile body, and the risk of hurting him more was too great.

His legs fought him, dragging heavily with weariness, slowing him to a stumble when he needed to be able to run. His shoes caught on cracks and loose cobblestones, sending him pitching, and reeling for his footing when his most important task in the world was staying balanced. The air was cold, and clouds of his own crystalized breath impeded his vision. Steve was shivering. Bucky’s lips were numb from the cold, but they moved mechanically, murmuring incoherent words of comfort to the limp, shuddering body in his arms. It had started out as words; promises, encouragement, assurances of his love, but it had faded now to unintelligible, whispered sound of comfort. It meant nothing anymore. it was just sounds, just something to break the dead, freezing silence of the night.

Steve lurched suddenly in Bucky’s arms, coughing violently. Bloody saliva sprayed from his chapped lips, and all Bucky could do was pray that the blood was from his split lips and bleeding gums, and not from a punctured lung. His body arched, contorting violently in his arms as the coughing fit ravaged his upper respiratory system. The vicious coughing subsided, a soft choke of pain drawing slowly from Steve’s lips. If his ribs were broken the way Bucky thought they were, then Steve’s coughing fits had suddenly gone from annoying to lethal.

"Steve," Bucky whispered, the word clear among the comforting babble. "Steve, it’s okay, it’s okay I’ve got you now. I’m not gonna let you go." He promised softly, risking a just one spare moment to press a soft kiss to his bloody forehead.

Steve’s eyelids fluttered weakly, the less swollen of the two lifting slightly. Bucky forced a pained smile, daring to shift Steve a little closer to him. “Hey…” He breathed. “Hey, look at me, look at me okay Stevie?” He pressed urgently, trying to get Steve to focus on him. His eyes looked dim, and uncomprehending. Bucky wasn’t even certain he was really conscious. But it didn’t matter, if he  _was_  conscious, if he  _could_  hear and understand him, Bucky wanted to offer him some comfort.

"You’re gonna be fine…we’re almost home see?" Bucky added in an encouraging tone. But Steve’s moment of clarity passed, his gaze fogging over as his eyelids closed again. Panic stabbed through Bucky like a knife, suddenly terrified that that was it, that in one, anti-climatic moment, Steve had given up, and slipped away from him. His chest was unnaturally still. And then, with another horrible, rattling cough, Steve’s lungs expanded again, the coughing fit ravaging his wreaked body. But he was alive.

Bucky choked back a sob, his aching fingers gripping into Steve’s shirt, damp with sweat, sticky with blood, as he dared to pull him a little closer. In that one moment, Bucky had been more frightened then he’d ever been in his entire life. He couldn’t loose Steve, he couldn’t. He had to save him.

The toe of Bucky’s tread-worn shoe caught on the front steps of their apartment, nearly sending him crashing to the concrete, nearly causing him to crush Steve’s fragile body beneath him. At the last moment, with a jerk that elicited a sharp cry of pain from Steve, Bucky managed to get his feet under him, staggering up the last few steps of their apartment. The door was locked. 

Bucky’s body went numb, a cold weight settling in the pit of his stomach. Even knowing where the key was, the locked door suddenly seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. Tears slid down his wind-chapped cheeks, stinging the raw flesh as the realization settled over him that he wasn’t going to be able to get Steve into the house without hurting him.  If he tried to pin Steve’s weight against the wall while he fumbled to unlock the door, well…he may as well just kill him. So instead, Bucky swallowed back his shuddering sobs and lowered Steve to the ground, moving as carefully as he was able. 

As Steve’s battered, broken body was shifted into a newer, more painful position, a cry of agony tore from his bloodied lips. Bucky’s stomach turned with guilt, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to quell his sobs. He was shaking, he was sobbing, he couldn’t see…He had to get Steve into the house…

Bucky reached into Steve’s pockets, whispering apologies in a cracked, agonized whimper as he seized the contents, yanking it free of the material. Clenched in his shaking fingers, Bucky held a few crumpled one dollar bills, one or two old order slips from earlier in the evening, a few stray paperclips and the nubby end of one of Steve’s charcoal pencils. Bucky swallowed the hard lump of disappointment in his throat down, simply dropping the handful without a second thought. The order slips and the few bills were almost instantly caught by the cold, gusty wind and snatched away. The end of the pencil clattered off the concrete, rolling past the clips and down the steps before dropping down a storm grate. 

Bucky shifted over Steve, careful not to nudge him, careful not to inflict and more damage than he already had. “I’m sorry,” He breathed in a shaky whisper, his tone desperate and imploring, begging forgiveness, for what? For not being strong enough to save him without hurting him? For creating this problem in the first place? For…for everything he couldn’t control, and couldn’t have possibly helped. “I’m sorry, I’m  _so_  sorry Steve…” He rasped, his heart raced as he dug around in Steve’s pockets feeling for the key to their apartment. The soft whimpers, and moans of pain that had been drug from his lover’s lips had trailed off, going ominously silent. Bucky choked painfully, blinking the tears from his vision as his search became more frantic. He reached over with his free hand, yanking at the material, pawing and digging desperately. Finally, his fingers closed around the smooth metal key, and he yanked it from Steve’s pocket, scrambling to his feet and jamming the key at the tarnish brass handle. 

By some miracle, it took Bucky only a few tries to steady his shaking fingers long enough to nestle the key into it’s resting place and hear the lock click. His stringy brown hair clung to the sweat on his forehead and to the tears clinging to his cheeks and lashes. His eyes looked manic. He was so close now, the door was open, he just had to get Steve inside…get the bleeding stopped. Bucky crouched again, pulling Steve up into his arms once more. He didn’t cry out this time, he didn’t even react, and that in itself was more terrible than any scream of agony he could have emitted. 

Bucky cradled Steve’s limp body to his chest, babbling franticly now, his words running over each other as he tried to comfort Steve, reassure him, beg him not to die. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t leave him alone. Bucky loved him to much for him to just die. It wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t as gentle as he should have been as he laid Steve down on the couch. the couch frame shuddered slightly at the weight, groaning with reluctance. Steve had slipped from his numb fingers at the last second, landing heavily. But it didn’t matter now, it was a mad scramble. Stop the bleeding, or watch Steve die. It was as simple as that.

As soon as he had freed his bloody hands from under Steve, Bucky lunged for the kitchen, scrambling past the still open door. Elbows and shins slammed into furniture as he careened into the kitchen, searching desperately for a rag, the pain only registering as a dull, jarring shock. Bucky’s shoes, wet from the water on he sidewalk, skidded on the tile, and he pitched forward violently.

The dark haired man crashed to the floor, his chin cracking viciously off the tile, sending a jarring pain through his skull. He could tell in an instant that the chin was split clean open; he left a smear of dark blood on the titles as he scrambled back up to his feet. Bucky, hands shaking and breathing uneven, seized hold of a draw, yanking it open and tearing through it’s contents. No rags, no cloth of any kind. His panic spiked as a scream of frustration tore from his lips. The drawer slammed so hard the entire counter rattled, and Bucky bolted to his feet, flinging open drawers, searching feverishly. In his blind panic, in the face of the crushing realization that he was loosing Steve, Bucky had lost all sense. He couldn’t even remember where a good, clean rag would be kept, and while he searched Steve was dying. Bucky yanked open the next drawer he came to. He plunged his hands in, tossing aside bottles of cleaner, nicknacks, and far too much other pointless junk.

His vision blurred again with tears, a miserable sob escaping him. Steve was bleeding out on the couch, and he couldn’t even find a rag…just one rag…one stupid rag to save his boyfriend’s life…

Bucky stumbled, weak, and practically blind, to one of the upper cabinets. His numb, shaking fingers gripped the handle, pulling it open. Dully, it registered in his panicked mind that this was the plate cabinet, that he was in the wrong place altogether, and then he saw it. The small stacks of plates rested on a cloth napkin; clean, checkered in blue and white, and never before used to stop the perfuse bleeding from a head wound. That was about to change. 

Bucky grabbed the edge of the cloth napkin and drug it out from under the plates, sending them crashing to the ground and shattering like a shrapnel bomb. Shards of white glass flew everywhere, scratching the flooring, skittering under the table and chairs. Bucky couldn’t care less. Glass crunched underfoot as he scrambled from the kitchen, back over to the living room, miraculously managing to keep his feet across the obstacle course of glass shards. 

He dropped to his knees heavily beside Steve, urgently pressing the cloth napkin to the ugly gash above his left eyebrow, which had begun to congeal and scab at the edges. Bucky could feel warmth soaking through the napkin, still gushing to fill the wound with hot blood. The entire left side of Steve’s face was sticky with congealed blood, concealing the livid purple and black bruises that were blossoming into visibility across that side of his face. His lips were swollen, and spilt in a half-dozen different places. His nose was gushing thick, red blood. It was bent to the side. Definitely broken. 

Bucky swallowed back his hysteria as he held the cloth to Steve’s head wound, staunching the blood flow. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to calm his rapid breathing, trying to focus, trying to think. He couldn’t help Steve if he was panicking. Bucky knew that eventually, he would need to get the first aid kit from the bedroom, but that would have to come after he got the bleeding stopped. After a few moments, he dared to lift the cloth, taking his first good look at the wound. Before, it had been dark, he had been running, and panicking, then, he’d been too concerned with stopping the bleeding. Now, he finally got to take a good look at the injury.  It was a angular, oddly shaped mark. It didn’t look like it had come from a blow from his client’s first, so what had cause it?

Suddenly, the image of the dumpster filled his mind, with it’s sharp, angular corners that he’d knocked himself on more than once. It had been close enough to the scene of the attack, the angle was right, it make perfect sense. As the blood began to refill the wound and his pressed the cloth back to it, Bucky felt hatred coiling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t shake it, the image of his client, his rapist, the man  _he’d_  brought down on them with his decision, grabbing Steve by his hair and slamming his head into the sharp corner of the dumpster. He could have died right then. The trauma from the hit could have been too much, and Steve could have just as easily crumpled limply to the pavement, and no amount of determination would have gotten him up again. Bucky swallowed back the nauseous rage that seethed inside him, making him want to fly off the handle, break anything within reach. But he couldn’t, he had too much healing to do. 

It seemed like an eternity before Bucky was confident enough that the bleeding had stopped to slip off to the bedroom and grab the first aid kit and a bucket of warm water. Even so, he was away from Steve’s side only a few moments before he was kneeling on the carpet again, checking over the head wound with gentle fingers. Bucky reached down, turning Steve’s jaw so that he was facing the back of the couch, his touch supremely gentle. With the left side of his face exposed to the light, Bucky soaked the now blood-stained cloth, raising it to gently dab around the wound. Once he’d insured that the area was clean and dry, he bandaged it carefully, tying the strips of clean cotton around Steve’s head. Bucky’s hands had gone mercifully steady as he tended to the wound, situating the bandages, cleaning off the rest of his battered face His throat closed up as he continued to carefully clean his face. God, he wished he’d whimper, squirm,  _something,_   _anything_  other than lay there like a corpse. His shallow, ragged breathing was the only indication that he was even still alive.

"Come on Stevie…" Bucky murmured, his voice barely above a cracked whisper. "Come on, wake up… _Talk to me you punk!_ " He cried, his pain redirecting to anger as he gripped fistfuls of Steve’s shirt. It was stupid, he knew, he wasn’t  _really_  angry at Steve, or he should be, but he felt so helpless, so angry…His trembling hands gripped the material of Steve’s shirt, his jaw locking as the helpless fear, and anger, and hurt built up inside of him. It was more than he could take. “Just fucking say something you _stupid bastard_!” Bucky screamed, his voice shattering the near silence of the apartment before the fight suddenly drained from his body. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against Steve’s chest as huge bitter sobs tore from his raw throat. He clutched the handfuls of Steve’s shirt as he bent over him, sobbing out the horrible feelings of fear, and anger, of guilt and inadequacy that had been building up in him for the past day and a half. 

In a perfect world, Steve would have heard him. Knowing the love of his life was so broken and scared would have been enough to bring him out of the fog. His swollen eyelids would have opened, slowly, but his eye would be clear and focused. He would have reached up a weak, bloody hand to rest it on Bucky’s shaking shoulders. In a perfect world, he would have managed a gentle hug despite his injury, all the while whispering words of soft reassurance, telling him it was okay, that he’d done it; he’d saved him. But it was far from a perfect world. Steve lay, injured, and motionless on the couch as huge shuddering sobs tore from Bucky’s exhausted body. His eyes didn’t open, and he wasn’t able to softly reassure the man he loved. He didn’t stir. He only breathed. At the moment, it was all he was capable of.   


	15. Chapter 15

The soothing, dark, nothing of unconsciousness had been a comforting lie. It was a lie Steve had found himself cocooned in, although not by choice. Still, he had been numb. Nothing hurt. He didn’t… _couldn’t_  think of a single, solitary thing. And for god knows how long, he’d allowed himself to remain there; hanging between death, and life.

And then something began pulling him up again, stripping away the comforting layers of nothingness, tearing away his cocoon of numbness, and the illusion of safety. He found himself being drug, almost forcefully, somewhere unnaturally bright, somewhere full of pain, and confusion. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to sleep, but he was finding he had less and less of a choice.  

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Cold, watery light spilled over Steve’s pillow, casting shadows on the angles of his battered face, burning warmth into his swollen eyelids. Even with his eyes closed, it was too bright. His head was swathed in agony. To say the pain was sharp would imply that he could pinpoint where it hurt the worst, like a knife jammed into his skull, but that wasn’t the case. It was a vicious, throbbing ache, pounding over his entire head and down his neck and shoulders. It wasn’t just one place, it was everywhere, although the pain seemed to be slightly more intense towards the front of his skull.

It hurt to breath. Steve’s felt as though his torso had been crushed by a tank, and every breath sent a shock of pain through him. Steve stifled a strangled whimper as his expanding lungs pressed against his broken ribs. His breath caught in his throat, and he exhaled slowly, controlling the airflow, controlling the pain. He had made the mistake of inhaling deeply. That wasn’t going to be a mistake his made again. Taking short, shallow breaths that still send stabs of pain like knives between his ribs, Steve forced his eyes open.

The chilly white light that spilled in from the window felt unnaturally bright after being in darkness for so long. It glared abrasively against his sensitive eyes, and Steve blinked, even that causing him pain. His left eye was swollen all but completely shut, his right opened all the way, but seemed blurry and overly sensitive to the light. And then there was one other problem. He didn’t know where he was.

Steve didn’t remember what had happened, or how he’d come to be so injured. He knew that the war was still going, he knew Harry Truman was the current president, he knew his name was Steve, but that was it. He didn’t even remember his own last name. He was just Steve.

Steve turned his head painfully, trying to get a better look at his surroundings, trying to piece together anything about where, or who he was. Steve blinked in surprise, momentarily startled. There was a man. Immediately to his right, a man knelt on the carpet, his head nestled in his arms against the couch, a look of exhaustion on his sleeping face. There was an ugly, scabbing split on his chin, and bruises across his knuckles. And yet, despite the pain he was in and the evidence on the man’s fists, he knew instinctively, at a core level, that this man couldn’t possibly be the person who’d hurt him. His dark hair feathered across his angular cheekbones, strands catching on his soft, rosy lips. His skin was browned from work in the sun, and Steve somehow knew in the back of his mind that he worked at the docks. His long eyelashes, as dark as his silky brown hair, just barely kissed the skin of his cheeks. He was beautiful.

Steve hated to wake him, but confusion and curiosity burned a hole down through the pit of his stomach, leaving him feeling disoriented, and empty. The sleeping, angelic man beside him may have answers. Steve swallowed painfully, his body still aching with every breath. He wanted to speak, to address the stranger, but his lips were still swollen painfully. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak, but he knew it would probably hurt when he did.

Steve reached out slowly, the ache in his body become more acute as he did. The blond haired man swallowed back a whimper, and brushed his numb fingers softly against his guardian angel’s arm. He stirred, shifting slightly before settling again, a guilty frown tugging at his brow. He looked upset,  _devastated_ actually. Even at rest, something inside him was so broken that he couldn’t even sleep in peace. The brunet inhaled deeply through his nose, and then released in in a shuddering gasp, slipping back to a deeper level of sleep. Steve swallowed hard, feeling a sudden stab of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his physical condition. For some reason, seeing this man look so exhausted and so upset even in his sleep broke Steve’s heart. He reached out, touching him again; gentle, but this time more persistent, nudging his arm.

Bucky stirred, sharply this time, his head jerking up with a disoriented shake. “Steve,” he blurted, his lover name the first thing on his tongue. At first, he thought he’d been dreaming, as he had so many other times. He had stayed up all night, tending to Steve, caring for his injuries, and replacing his bandages. He refused to leave his side. Even when he did decide to rest, right there at Steve’s side, his fear had kept him awake. He would just begin to nod off when a sudden terror that he would wake up and find Steve dead would strike him, keeping him awake, and shaking with sobs for hours. Around six in the morning, he’d finally drifted off. Now, Bucky could have sworn it was just a sleep-deprived, delirious hope that had him imagining that Steve had gently touched his arm, that was, until he looked over and saw Steve looking at him.

Bucky startled, hardly daring to believe it, and then the reality hit home. He was awake, he was alive, and he was looking for him. “Steve,” Bucky gasped breathlessly, his voice cracking as he suddenly leaned forward in clumsy anticipation, cupping Steve’s bruised face in his hands and kissing him.

The dark haired man’s hand moved softly over his cheeks and neck, never putting pressure on his injuries, never hurting him. His lips were warm and damp with eagerness and desperation, and for a moment, it felt so natural, and so right that Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t know who he was.

Bucky broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he nuzzled him softly, his affection sweet and honest. “Oh god Steve,” he rasped, his voice choked with emotion. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were gonna die y’stupid punk.” Bucky gasped around a bitter laugh, kissing him again, softly, being mindful of his split lips.

Steve shifted slightly, grunting in pain. “Where-” he managed in a tight voice, trying to formulate the words he needed in his mind, but he didn’t need too, Bucky already knew.”

"At the house," he breathed between kisses, stroking his fingers softly through his hair as he kissed him gently, again, and again.  _God_ , he knew he should stop but he could bring himself to. He’d been so scared. He never wanted to come that close to loosing Steve again. He wanted to hold him, kiss him a thousand times,  _somehow_  express to him how frightened he was, how glad he was that Steve was alive. “It okay, I got us back to the house…” He assured him. “I’ve got you…”

"Okay…" Steve said weakly, his confusing making him feel suddenly upset because _god,_  this guy was kissing him, and staring at him like he was the center of his goddamn universe and he didn’t even know his name!

Bucky hesitated, hearing the tremor in Steve’s voice, hearing the way it weakened and cracked at the end, and suddenly he felt guilty. He was so excited just to see him alive, he’d felt so blessed just to be able to hear his voice that he’d gotten carried away. His lips were so swollen, he’d probably hurt him. “God, Steve, I’m sorry,” he breathed, seeing moisture shimmering in Steve’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry Steve, I was just so fucking happy your not- sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” He assured him gently, brushing a thumb under his eye to wipe away the tears. He couldn’t let Steve get wound up, it could only hurt him worse. “Hey, it’s okay, don’t cry…” Bucky whispered, stroking his fingers through his hair. “Don’t cry…”

Steve choked back a sob that sent a crushing wave of pain through his chest. He was just so confused. He couldn’t remember a single thing, and it was terrifying. “Who are you?” He choked, begging for answers, something solid he could cling to.

Bucky’s head snapped up as Steve’s croaked whisper fell on his ears. For a moment, he looked hurt, and then realization suddenly dawned in his eyes. Bucky’s jaw dropped open slowly, his expression registering shock, and pity. “You concussed.” He said, his voice just above a whisper, before his face flushed with self-directed frustration and he stood to his feet. “Your _concussed_ ,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Of course you are, how  _stupid_ could I be? That bastard hit your skull off a fucking metal dumpster,  _of course_ you’re concussed.” Bucky snapped shortly, angry that he hadn’t thought of it before, angry that he hadn’t asked Steve if he even  _knew_  him before he went and kissed him. God, he’d probably scared him to death. Bucky knew that if he’d woken up, immobile on a stranger’s couch, with an unfamiliar man kissing him on the mouth, he’d be scared too. No wonder he was crying. And now he was shouting, god, could he mess this up any worse?

Bucky turned slowly, the frustration seeping out of his body as he walked softly back to Steve’s side. He didn’t want to startle him, especially after he’d kissed him without his definite consent. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, sinking back to his knees. “I’m sorry I shouted.” Bucky drew in a deep breath, hoping he could handle things right from now on. He didn’t really know how, but he was going to try. Did you tell amnesiacs everything? or did you give them the bare details and let them remember the rest at their own pace? Bucky had no clue, but Steve had asked him a question, and not hell or high water was going to stop him from answering. “My name James Buchanan Barnes.” He said softly, gently stroking his hair. “You call me Bucky. You’re my boyfriend, and I love you more than anything else on this dumb’ol planet. But if you want,” he added after a moments pause, “I won’t kiss you again until after you remember me.”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to wrap his mind around the information he’d been given. This man was his boyfriend. Bucky. He loved him. He didn’t remember it, but it felt right, it make sense. And Steve  _didn’t_  want Bucky to stop kissing him; he wanted him to kiss him until he remembered, until the raw, open affection Bucky had bestowed on him so willingly before unburied the parts of him that were lost. But Steve could say this. His mind and mouth wouldn’t work together. He was so tired. So confused. He was scared, but he had something real to hang on to now. His name was Steve, the was wasn’t over, Harry Truman was in office, and James Buchanan Barnes loved him.

Steve drew in a few short breath, trying not to inhale too deeply. “I’m tired.” He croaked, still sounding like he was going to cry.

Bucky smile, a soft, genuine kind of smile. “Okay,” he whispered in response, stuffing the urge to kiss him once more. “I’m going to give you some medicine, it’ll help you sleep.” He said softly, reaching behind himself to take grab the bottle of medicine. He poured Steve a full dose, thankful that he hadn’t coughed yet since he woke up. He wanted to keep it that way. “Here,” he breathed, tipping Steve’s head up and helping him swallow down the medicine. “There we go Stevie…get some sleep…”

Steve’s eyes were already growing heavy as Bucky laid his head back on the pillow.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bucky spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between sleeping, tending to Steve’s bandages, and beating himself up. He went though every line in the book. ‘I should have known,’ ‘I should have asked,’ ‘what if he won’t trust me now that I’ve kissed him without his consent?’ ‘I should have been more careful,’ ‘I’m so fucking stupid.’ But after hours of tearing himself apart, Bucky suddenly gave up.

It didn’t do himself, or Steve any good for him to beat himself up about the foolish things he’d done in a moment of desperation or excitement. It was kind of freeing to be honest. Since the night he’d first sold himself to get money for Steve’s medicine, he’d been merciless. Everyone deserved forgiveness, everyone deserved a second chance. Everyone but him. It had been this moment of clarity that had made Bucky realize that if he treated anyone as horribly as he treated himself… _god_ , no one would want anything to do with him.

And yet, he was so quick, almost eager to punish himself. It had to stop. He was guilty about prostituting himself out, yes. He regretted not getting to Steve faster, not getting him home sooner. But he was here now. He was alive, and Bucky wasn’t making Steve any better by throwing himself under the bus. He needed to focus on getting Steve better, making him remember, and being absorbed in his own thoughts of self punishment held no place in that picture.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_Rogers._  It was his first thought, clear as a bell, when he woke up. He was Steve Rogers, and he lived in Brooklyn. It wasn’t much, but it was something more.

Everything in him wanted to get up, wander around, look for his companion, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even sit up. He was having a hard enough time just breathing. Steve exhaled softly through his sore and swollen lips, wondering what would happen if he tried to call for the dark haired man. Bucky, he reminded himself. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, call out for him, make him think he’d remembered him, but he needed to. He was thirsty. His mouth felt like sand paper and, as unappealing as the thought of later needing to used a bedpan was, he needed water.

Steve lifted his throbbing head, parting his lips. He felt like a tease, like a cheat, but it couldn’t be helped. “Bucky?” He called softly, his voice sounding so small in the nearly empty apartment.

It was mere moments before Bucky opened the door to the bedroom, moving hurriedly to Steve’s side. He looked anxious, and hopeful.

"Steve," he breathed, his expression warm with hope. "You’re awake again."

"I’m…thirsty…" Steve croaked, the only words his mind would let him string together.

Bucky granted him a sympathetic smile, gently touching his forehead. “Sure,” he whispered. “Let me get you some water.”

Steve’s body went limp with relief as Bucky went to fetch the water. Everything hurt so badly as it was, and the metallic taste of dry blood in his mouth did nothing to help.

Bucky came back with a tall glass of room temperature water, knowing that anything colder could hurt his sensitive mouth. He helped Steve through it, sip by sip, knowing that the hydration would help him recover. It took a long time before Steve had managed to get the last few sips of water down, but it left his mind feeling clearer than it had felt in his limited memory. Bucky had risen to his feet with a soft smile, turning to go, giving him his privacy.

"Bucky," Steve called after him, his mind going blank of everything but his need to have him by his side. Bucky stopped where he stood, glass still in hand. He turned with a soft smile, the expression open, free of pressure, and not expecting anything of him. Steve took a tiny breath in, trying to settle the churning cloud of confusion in his mind. "Stay?" He rasped.

Bucky expression melted, hope, heartache, and pity all washing across his features in a matter of seconds. He set the glass aside, moving over and kneeling down next to Steve, daring to gently clasp his hand in his own. “Hey. You remember me now Stevie?” He asked, hating himself for hoping, but daring to believe that he’d asked  _because_  he remembered him.

Steve wet his lips slowly, and dropped his eyes away, unable to really shake his head. “No.” He admitted, wishing he didn’t have to see the hope burn out from he beautiful man’s eyes. He  _wanted_  to know, him, he  _wanted_  to love him, but it was out of his reach. He needed help. “Kiss me?” Steve asked softly, and Bucky managed a heartbroken little smile.

"You don’t remember me Steve, I’m no one to you yet…"

"That’s bullshit." Steve countered, seeing the look of shock on Bucky’s face. It felt normal, like how they must have talked before. Soft, sincere words, and calling each other out on their idiotic crap.  _That_  felt right. Steve steadied his breathing, swallowing back his nervousness. “I  _don’t_  remember you. But I  _know_ you, I know I do. I want you to help me.”

Bucky hesitated a moment, stunned by how very much he sounded like himself. It was too much to hope for he supposed, that kissing him would shake out the cobwebs in his concussed mind, but it didn’t hurt to try. He leaned over, his lips hovering over’s Steve, and in that moment he was thankful that the mouth healed faster than most other areas of the body. His split and swollen lips were already looking better; his gums had ceased to bleed.

"Are you  _sure_  you want me to kiss you?” Bucky pressed, making certain this time. Steve hummed in response, wetting his lips.

"Please." Steve whispered. It was good enough for him.

Bucky shifted, touching an experimental kiss to Steve’s lips. It was soft, close-lipped, chaste, but he wanted to watch Steve closely, gauge his reactions, know when to stop.

Steve lay on the couch, relaxed, and receptive. He looked comfortable, so Bucky tried another kiss. He held it for longer this time, parting his lips as his mouth fit perfectly into the warm curve of Steve’s. It occurred to him, as he knelt beside the couch, kissing Steve with such raw, affectionate honesty, that this was good for him to. He’d been so close to loosing Steve, so afraid of having to live his life without him, that to give those fears up, and let himself be immersed in his affection for the man he loved, was healing.

Bucky paused for only a moment now, just long enough to check that Steve was still comfortable, and receptive to his affection, before he closed the distance between their lips again. He never wanted to stop. He never  _ever_ wanted to have to imagine a life without Steve again. Bucky shifted over, moving to perch on he edge of the couch rather than kneeling in the floor. He bent over Steve, kissing him earnestly, passionately, wanting to remind him of how deeply he was loved.

Despite the aching muscles in his shoulders and back, Steve reached up, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He pulled him closer, letting himself be filled with the sensation of the other man’s affection. He felt like he was close, so close to remembering what he had lost, so close to every detail about this amazing man falling back into place. But it was still out of reach; an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Part of Steve craved a more intimate kind of physical affection. He wanted Bucky to hold him, touch him, revive sensations that may help him remember, but there were a few things getting in the way of that. Firstly, he could barely move. Secondly, he may not remember much about Bucky, but he was certain he wouldn’t agree to anything like that so long as Steve was still injured, and so long as he couldn’t remember him.

Bucky felt a momentary thrill of pleasure as Steve’s finger twisted through his hair, a shiver running down his spine. Bucky slid his tongue softly between Steve’s lips, brushing it against Steve’s as he deepened the kiss, his hands moving softly down his neck. Steve mimicked he movement, his hands trailing down he skin of his throat, caressing softly.

After a long moment, Steve broke the kiss, tipping his chin down slightly. Bucky took he subtle hint, moving to pull away, but Steve’s hands remained firmly on the back of his neck, so he stayed. Steve’s gaze drifted down to where his hands rested on Bucky’s neck. Dark, finger shaped bruises had blossomed across his skin from where his client had choked him the night before. They still hurt, but the ache had dulled over the course of the night, now only really hurting if something nudged or pressed into them. Steve’s expression grew thoughtful, his fingers brushing, featherlight, over the bruises in Bucky’s throat.

"I’m sorry he hurt you…" Steve murmured, tracing his fingers down his lover’s neck. He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d remembered his attacker. There hadn’t been a specific moment, he had just kind of seeped into the gaps in his memory, not completely, but enough to piece together. He could picture his face, smirking at Bucky from across the bar, his disgusting, perverse gaze sliding down Bucky’s long, slender frame. 

Bucky drew an uncertain breath, guarded against being too hopeful. “You remember that bastard?” He asked softly, feeling Steve’s fingers tracing the bruises.

"Enough," Steve responded. "I know he hurt you. I know he forced you into things you didn’t want to do…"

Bucky swallowed back the old gnawing fear, and forced down the ill founded guilt that he was working on crushing out. He didn’t want to talk about him. He didn’t want to dwell on it. There was something more important here. If Steve remembered his client, remember what he’d done, that meant that somewhere, Steve remembered him. Even if it was only little pieces, he would take it. “Are you saying you remember me now Stevie?” Bucky asked in a teasing tone, that just came off as very gentle, and  _so_  hopeful…

Steve’s looked up at the face of the man that was so familiar to him, the face of the man he loved, but still didn’t completely remember. Nothing was going to snap back into place, but his memories of Bucky were seeping back up through the cracks, filling the empty places inside him. The blond haired man’s lips pulled into a little smile, traces of cockiness hovering in the corners. Bucky seemed more relaxed when he teased him a bit, it must be something they did a lot, something comfortable, and familiar. His hand moved back up to Bucky’s hair, gently twisting through the soft locks and pulling him down a bit closer. “Why don’t you kiss me again Barnes and help me figure it out.”


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky talked Steve into taking another dose of medicine at eight o’clock that evening, knowing that nothing would hasten recovery like sleep. He’d coughed some throughout the day, thankfully though, it wasn’t too bad. Even so, it seemed like torture while it lasted. The bigger problem was that Steve wasn’t able to keep any food down. Steve’s concussion had thrown all of his bodily functions out the window. He remembered very little, he threw up every few hours, and the one time Bucky tried to move him to the comfort of the bedroom, he’d passed out from dizziness simply by sitting up.

But Bucky was gentle, and persistent. With Steve’s consent, he picked him up, carrying him to the bedroom. He knew it cause Steve some discomfort to be moved, but the couch was old, with spring and bit of hard metal and wood jabbing from unexpected places. Steve wouldn’t rest well there, and Bucky new that rest was crucial to his healing. He ensured that Steve got enough sleep, and he made him light broths to drink. He also insisted that he get plenty of water, despite his detest for using the bedpan.

The issue of the vomiting thankfully faded after the first day. By the time evening had rolled around and Steve hadn’t thrown up once, Bucky made him some buttered toast and rice to go with his usual broth. The nutrition, Bucky knew, would be good for him.

The dizziness persisted, as did the memory loss, but neither was without it’s improvments. Steve seemed to remember little bits of things, inconsequential things, like where they kept the silverware, and what street they lived on. Bucky found a favorite question. At any given point through the day, weather he was washing dishes, or changing Steve’s bandages, he’d always say the same thing. _'Remind me who I am again Stevie.'_

The core of Steve’s answer always stayed the same: _'You're my boyfriend Bucky, and you love me.'_ But, with every time Bucky asked, the list seemed to get longer. _'You're my boyfriend Bucky, and you love me. You work down at the docks, but only sometimes…you were in the military.' 'You're my boyfriend Bucky, and you love me. You were in the navy, but you're not anymore. You work on the docks during the day, but at a bar…our bar? At night. You don't like working at the docks, but you can't quite because we need the money too much.'_

Today, four days after the incident, Bucky asked the same thing he always did, and got a vastly different answer.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Remind me who I am again Stevie," Bucky prompted as he checked Steve’s head bandages. He hadn’t changed them since last night, but the strips of cotton were miraculously clean. If there wasn’t a chance of splitting the scab open again, he would have taken them off all together. But, as it was, Bucky wanted to wait a few more days until he was certain that the scab wouldn’t break. Steve was healing well, he wouldn’t need the bandages for long.

Steve exhaled softly collecting his thoughts. Bucky always loved to hear what he would say, he loved to know what details he’d remembered. But then again, Steve had just now woken up from another medicine induced nap, and he may not be thinking perfectly clearly just yet.

"You’re my boyfriend Bucky, and you love me…" He started softly, knowing it was the one thing he never wanted to forget again. A small frown tugged at his brow as he lets his air hiss softly between his nicely healing lips." and you’re a self-sacrificial pile of horse shit."

Well _that_ was new. Bucky blinked slowly, his mind pitching with conflicted emotions, because it was a little cruel, but it sounded so much like Steve that he almost wanted to laugh. “Uhhhhmmm…okay” Bucky started, a bark of laughter escaping him, but Steve looked genuinely frustrated at him. “W-why would you say that Stevie?”

"Because you are." He responded shortly, looking vaguely pissed off.

Bucky frowned slightly, not wanting to say what he was thinking, he wanted to hear it straight from Steve’s mouth, he wanted to hear him say what he’d remembered. “Is this about the…”

"Medicine? Yeah." Steve said in a snipped tone. " _I know,_ I’ve been upset about this before, but this still feels kind of new to me, so give me two minutes to feel a little pissed.”

Bucky stared down at him, blackened eye, bruised face, broken ribs and all. He looked so frustrated, but that the moment, that expression made Bucky happier than he could ever remember being in his life. Bucky’s expression bloomed into a smile, and in that moment, it didn’t matter that Steve was feeling a little upset with him again. He remembered! He remembered enough to feel upset again, he remembered that he loved him, and hadn’t wanted him hurt. He remembered him!

Bucky leaned forward abruptly, his hands cupping eagerly around Steve’s jaw as he pressed his open mouth to Steve’s, cradling him close in desperation and a complete, overwhelming joy. For a moment, Steve felt tense beneath his touch, and then he relaxed, seeming to melt under the open honest affection of Bucky’s kiss. He reached up, softly cupping Bucky face in his hands and drawing him down.

Bucky responded to Steve’s guiding hands, sinking down into the bed next to him, shifting overtop of him so he could kiss him unobstructed. Steve _felt_ like himself, he felt open, and receptive, he felt familiar, and complete. Bucky had kissed Steve frequently over the past few days. He’d always been willing, but something in him hadn’t quite felt like his Steve. He _felt_ like his Steve now.

"You remember," Bucky choked, trying not to sound like he was going to break down sobbing at any second. "You remember me…" The words were a whispered prayer of thankfulness, murmured between damp and smiling lips. He didn’t have to question now weather or not the man he loved loved him in return. He didn’t have to be afraid that he’d never really remember, and decide that maybe they didn’t belong together anymore. Steve remember him. He loved him. 

"Of course I do," Steve murmured, his heart pounding painfully against his still aching ribs. "I remember everything about you. I remember that smokey old navy bar we met in, how freaking gorgeous you looked. I remember our first date at the dance hall while we were on leave and that pathetic hotel room we spent the night in."

Bucky managed a hoarse laugh, pressing his lips to Steve’s, not wanting to stop. That hotel room had seemed like a palace that night, but Steve wasn’t wrong. It really had been a dump, but it was funny how little it had mattered when he and Steve had been making love on the creaking mattress.

Steve caught his breath, nuzzling into Bucky’s neck and kissing softly along his neck and throat. “I remember,” he murmured softly between kisses, “sneaking kisses while the other sailors snuck cigarettes. I remember sketching you when we had time off, and I remember laughing so freaking hard because you could _not_ sit still and it was driving me up a wall.”

Steve paused a moment, tipping Bucky’s face down and pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to his wet, rosey lips. He held it for a long time before pulling back, his chest tightening with grief. “I remember breaking your heart. ” he murmured, his lips brushing against Bucky’s as he did. His eyes were closed; his touch, penitent.

Bucky swallowed hard, his finger sliding softly through his lovers hair. “Steve-” he whispered, wanting to reassure him, but Steve silencing him with another soft kiss.

"I remember searching for you," He said softly, "and trying to make everything better, when all I could think was how I didn’t deserve to win you back." Steve managed a little smile, his hands sliding softy down his torso. "I remember how you wouldn’t talk to me…how I couldn’t even blame you for that ‘cause I’d messed up _so_ freaking bad…I can remember how fucking sloshed you were the night I took you home from the bar, and how uncomfortable it was being in the same house as you all day. I remember all the time it took before you trusted me not to hurt you again…” He whispered softly, touching him with reverent hands. “and I remember all the time we put into opening that bar.”

Bucky laughed softly. “That was the best thing you ever talk me into.” He said quietly, nuzzling Steve softly as he kissed him. “It’s going to be perfect. I’ll be able to quite work at the docks soon…you and I can work the bar together every night, just like we planned…it’ll be amazing…you were a genius to think of it Stevie.”

Steve laughed softly, a tingle running down his spin as Bucky’s hands brushed down his neck, following the muscular lines of his torso down to his waist. “I…remember being worried, and scared when you didn’t show up to open the bar. I remember being upset that you let yourself get hurt for my sake, and that it took us all day to stop blowing up at each other. I remember what happened the other night…”

Bucky swallowed, moving his hands away from Steve’s waist, earnestly cupping his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.” He whispered fervently, stroking his fingers over the cotton bandages. He would have done anything to have save Steve the pain, but it was done now, and he couldn’t go back, not matter how much he wanted too.

Steve reached up, catching Bucky’s hand softly in his own and pulling it away from the bandages. He moved it gently, guiding it down and clasping his lover’s fingers over his heart. “Don’t apologize for something you couldn’t have helped.” He said quietly, his tone low, and serious. “Now, I know I’ve royally screwed up before, and so have you at times, but this wasn’t one of them. Yeah, you didn’t find me right away, that wasn’t your fault.” Steve reached up,  his fingers tangling through the back of Bucky’s hair as he pulled him down closer, so that their foreheads were touching again. His breath was warm and comforting on Bucky’s lips, a reminder that he really was right here, that he really was his again. ”You beat the ever living shit out of a man who terrified you so that he wouldn’t hurt me…” Steve breathed, his nose brushing softly against Bucky’s. “I can’t fault you for that Buck…”

Bucky managed a little smile, shifting his position so his weight rested gently on Steve’s hips. “And then you went and forgot about me you ungrateful little punk.” He laughed softly, trying not to let Steve know just how grateful _he_ was. How grateful he was that Steve didn’t blame him, that he didn’t fault him for not getting to him sooner.

A quiet laugh escaped Steve’s lips, and he grimaced as it sent a dull ache through his ribs. “Had a little help from a dumpster with that one.” He said ruefully. Bucky snorted in response and Steve felt a flood of warmth as his boyfriend pressed his lips softly against his own.

Bucky pressed closer, kissing Steve deeply, a warm, bubbling happiness fizzling in his chest. He hadn’t felt this happy in a long time, maybe ever. Maybe, he’d never in his life felt quite as happy as he did right now. Bucky had never felt that he had much entitlement to happiness. He’d spent a good part of his life chasing an illusion of contentment though late nights out with strangers, with boyfriends who ultimately ended up leaving, or hurting him. He’d sought happiness, and sometimes comfort at the bottom of a vodka bottle, but it had all felt empty before Steve. And now, lying in bed with the man he’d liked, then loved, then hated, and now loved again, he felt a sense of peace filling all those empty, lonely places that nothing had been able to touch.

Thing had been hard recently. The odds had stacked themselves against them, and yet, despite everything, despite the prejudice they faced, despite the sickness, heartbreak, and financial struggles, they were still here. They were still together, and nothing could matter more to Bucky then that.

Bucky broken the kiss reluctantly, sinking slowly down onto the mattress beside him. He had so wanted to settle down on top of him, and curl up against his chest as he’d done so often in the past, be he had to remind himself that Steve was still far from recovered, and everything he did had to be measured with extreme care. He needed to be gentle with Steve. No matter how much he wanted to smother him in affection, not matter how much he wanted to wrap him in a crushing hug, or kiss every inch of his perfect, battered body, he had to remind himself that Steve’s recovery came before anything else.

"So…" Steve said quietly, his hands sliding down Bucky’s thigh as he tangled their legs comfortably together. "What are the chances of you fucking me senseless?"

Bucky snorted, nuzzling his face affectionately against Steve’s neck. “Not good,” He murmured, absently pressing a kiss below his ear. Steve snorted softly, but let it rest, allowing Bucky to snuggle into his side. A deep, comfortable silence settled like a blanket over the room. Bucky lay, fitted against the curve of Steve’s warm body, with his arms wrapped around his neck,  his finger’s brushing softly over the rough stubble that was beginning to show on Steve’s jawline. Steve tangled their legs together comfortably, enjoying the feeling of Bucky’s muscular thighs tangled between his. The blond’s hand still moved through Bucky’s hair as they rested, twisting affectionately through the soft locks. His nails scrapped pleasantly across his lover’s scalp, finger’s trailing down the back of his neck. Bucky nuzzled his face closer into Steve’s neck, breathing in his warm, musky smell.

The world could have stopped spinning right then and there and Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes would neither have realized, or cared. After everything, they were together, and nothing else mattered.

  
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	17. Epilogue

Healing took time. Bucky’s ill-founded guilt took as long to recover from as Steve’s broken ribs, but neither of them had to overcome it on their own. Bucky tended to Steve’s physical injuries, while Steve gently walked Bucky through his emotional damage, and there was a _lot_ to be repaired. Bucky eventually divulged, in detail, what had been done to him, sharing with Steve the painful memories had he’d tucked away inside him for fear of hurting the man he loved. Once he’d opened up completely though, Steve helped him to heal from the damage his client had caused.

The weeks brought recovery from the physical, and emotional trauma the event had left them. The illness that had plagued Steve’s body for so long was finally ground out, though it took almost all of the precious medicine in the glass bottle to do so. His injuries healed, and though an angular scar had formed above his left eyebrow, Bucky thought he looked no worse off. Whenever the brunet saw his boyfriend staring, or picking at the scaring, he always made a point to kiss the mark. It kept him thankful. It reminded him how lucky he was to still have Steve.

Once Bucky was certain that Steve was back to full health, he agreed to let him come back and help again at the bar, and it was everything Bucky had imagined it would be. Bucky waited the tables in the dining room while Steve worked the bar, creating art forms out of the drinks. When the orders had all been seen too, Steve would play the piano, Bucky occasionally joining him for duet pieces. The customers loved Steve, because who wouldn’t? He was handsome, friendly, and charming. He took pride in his work, and interest in his costumers, and in the evenings, the two men would  laugh until the cried as they sorted through the numbers that girls had left written on the corners of napkins.

Business picked up rapidly at the bar, keeping both men busy until long after they were supposed to close in the evening. Often, it was one or two in the morning before the last customers trickled out the door. It left Steve tired, and footsore, but it was all worth it when Bucky came home with his last paycheck from the docks, and a copy of his resignation slip in his hand.

Being a same-sex couple in the 40’s was no easy task, and it meant that something’s simply weren’t an option. Steve knew this full well. They would never have a slip of paper bearing a hyphenated last name, or tax benefits, or even a proper ceremony. But it didn’t matter, because when Steve got down on one knee and offered Bucky a simple, gold band, he _still_ said yes. And it was the only one word answer Steve needed to hear. 


End file.
